


Anglo-Swedish Relations

by carmenta



Series: Young, Hot and Royal [2]
Category: Royalty RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-02
Updated: 2010-05-02
Packaged: 2017-10-09 06:37:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/84131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carmenta/pseuds/carmenta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life is about to become a lot more complicated for Michael Gray, Royalty Protection Department now that his prince has gotten himself an international royal affair. Princes must be guarded, secrets must be kept, and sorting out his own love life turns difficult when half of it is in another country.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anglo-Swedish Relations

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [To Move Earth and Heaven: A Royal Romance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/72762) by [rekishi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rekishi/pseuds/rekishi). 
  * Inspired by [Through The Looking Glass: The Duke Of Vroomland](https://archiveofourown.org/works/85816) by [rekishi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rekishi/pseuds/rekishi). 



> **Disclaimer:** This is real person slash. I want to stress that this is a work of fiction and that all portrayals of real persons are fictional interpretations of their public personas. I claim no insight into their lives or characters. All future events portrayed in the story are, of course, purely fictional; past events on public record have been used where fitting the story and have been fictionalized accordingly. I intend no harm or insult with this story; no profit is being made.
> 
> To sum it up: this is amateur fiction, not clairvoyance. I'm making this up.
> 
> All real persons obviously belong to themselves. The original characters belong to autumn_belias and me. The St. James Park ducks belong to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett.
> 
> **Author's Note:** This is a spin-off to autumn_belias' To Move Earth and Heaven: A Royal Romance. I recommend you read hers first; mine works as a stand-alone but will make more sense in combination. Besides, you'd be missing a great story otherwise!

As royal weddings went, this one was almost bearable. Almost, because among the scores of harmless aristocrats and dignitaries, there were still more than a few waiters, ushers and other personnel around who could present a threat. The Swedish security service had a reputation for thoroughness, but you never knew for sure if you hadn't supervised the procedures for yourself.

Inspector Michael Gray, Royalty Protection Department, Metropolitan Police Service, did his best not to look threatening. That sort of appearance was great for regular events but not entirely suitable when it came to a royal wedding. Best to look vaguely interested in what was going on while keeping an eye on his charge. At least that was fairly simple; Prince William tended to be an easy person to guard. Never ran off without telling anyone, stuck to his schedule, nice and sensible when it came to listening to his security detail. Far different from Prince Harry.

Guarding Harry, Michael thought as he watched the Danish crown prince and his wife approach, wasn't a task, it was punishment debatable by the Geneva Convention.

After a little chat - Michael caught some snippets about Viking row boats, but didn't consciously listen - the Danes departed again, probably off to either exchange pictures of their children with some of the other royal couples, or to snatch some of the salmon-y pastry thingies that seemed vastly popular with everyone. William didn't follow; he stayed where he was, wine glass in hand, and slowly got that slightly glazed smile that always meant he was drifting off to contemplate something odd. Fortunately for his public image, he'd learned not to mention what he was thinking about.

Interruption soon approached in the form of Prince Carl Philip of Sweden, brother of the bride. Michael watched the prince stop a few paces away from William to take a look. Eyebrows raised - he'd probably spotted the odd smile - he closed the rest of the distance and started up a conversation with William about zombies and a British succession crisis.

Michael blinked, then mentally shrugged and dismissed it all as harmless. It wasn't as if a real succession crisis was going to come from that little chat.

***

Half an hour later, Michael almost had a heart attack when Prince William suddenly sported a huge dark red spot on the front of his shirt. A glass of wine knocked out of the Prince's hand in the hurry to escape the rain, he realised with a rush of relief. At least all the official pictures had been taken and there weren't any reporters around for this part of the reception anymore - the paparazzi would have had a field day with that sort of image.

"Come on, I'll lend you a shirt," Carl Philip told William, who was still wiping at his clothes with a napkin. "That won't come out, and you'll just get damper."

For that little bit of care, Michael could almost forgive him for laughing at his prince a few moments earlier when the wine incident had happened.

Swedes, he thought. They just didn't take things seriously. Then again, what could you expect from a people who'd invented curling.

He followed the princes into the private areas of the castle, along with a handful of other security guards. Points to the Swedish Säkerhetspolisen for not letting two royals simply wander off like that.

"You'll have to stop here," one of the Säpos told him just as they were about to turn a corner into a short corridor with a handful of doors. "Private apartments, we're not going there."

"I am in charge of Prince William's security, officer. It's been agreed beforehand that we'll have access to any areas the prince enters."

"We have searched the premises earlier, and there are guards stationed at all entry points. Your prince is perfectly safe here." The Säpo officer looked apologetic. "The private apartments of the princesses and the prince are off limits when they are in residence."

Michael gave him a hard look, then took a half step backwards as a sign of assent. "Fine, but I am not moving from here. Are there any other ways out?"

"Not unless they climb through the window, and we've got officers watching that side of the building. We will just have to wait here for them to come out again. Prince Carl Philip said something about a fresh shirt for your prince, I doubt that will take long."

Twenty minutes later, Michael was beginning to doubt those words when his prince wasn't answering any calls to his cell phone. And so did the Swedes, if their increased murmured headset conversations were anything to go by.

"Trouble?" he asked, ready to call the rest of his team into action.

The Säpo officer who'd talked to him earlier shook his head. "Not as such, they are still inside," he said. "Seems like our princes have decided to take a little break."

Michael shrugged. "Can't blame them. You've got line of sight into the rooms?"

"If we need to. But right now..."

"Not an issue, I know. Still, doesn't hurt to be prepared. Let's just wait for now."

They waited, and waited some more. Familiar territory for Michael; on a normal day he spent hours outside doors while his prince was inside, safely behind the walls of a royal residence or other secure premises.

Still, how long could it take to change a shirt? Michael hadn't heard anything about Prince Carl Philip being a danger to anyone, and he didn't think they were likely to experience a British-Swedish diplomatic incident between the two princes. But the longer he had to wait, the more he wanted this to be over with. Besides, downstairs the wedding was still going on and at some point people were bound to wonder where the princes had disappeared to.

"I want to take a look," he told the Säpo officer - Sven, he'd learned during a bit of small talk. "This is taking too long."

Sven hesitated, then nodded. "Follow me," he said and led Michael off into a narrow hallway, around a few corners, through a door into a small room full of spare chairs and to a small window overlooking a courtyard, the same Prince Carl Philip's quarters had to border. "Third to fifth window from the left," he said. "Nobody uses the rooms on this side of the courtyard, so he tends not to bother with curtains."

Eyes narrowed, Michael looked and breathed an inward sigh of relief when he caught sight of his prince buttoning up a fresh shirt. It seemed that all fears for William's virtue had been unfounded after all.

"All right, looks like they're about to come out again," he said to Sven. "Let's give them some space, Prince William never likes it when we hover too close. Calls us mother hens, he does."

"Kycklingmamma," Sven muttered. "Yes, I hear that too."

***

Back in London it was soon business as usual. A few meet-and-greets, some visits to charity organisations, a rather memorable last-minute substitution for Princess Anne which led to William being announced as the Princess Royal to the senior citizens of the Willowbrook retirement home. As far as Michael was concerned, life was good.

Then came the break-up with Miss Middleton. Michael wasn't on duty when that went down, but he was called in for the aftermath, just in case. You never knew what might happen, and didn't old Will claim that hell hath no fury, and so on? The Royalty Protection Department was taking no chances, and Michael spent the next week practically glued to the side of his prince, along with two other inspectors. They even assigned special officers to Prince Harry, on the reasoning that it never hurt to keep a close eye on that one even though Miss Middleton wasn't likely to attempt to booby-trap his car.

Being on princely duty meant that Michael was just outside the door when William officially broke the news to the Queen. Buckingham Palace was never comfortable territory; the palace had its own pool of security agents and they tended to snub those who worked for the minor royal residences. But that evening Michael suspected that even with the sidelong looks he received from the palace guards, he was a lot more at ease than his prince. William looked painfully formal when he came out of the Queen's reception room half an hour later, and the tension didn't ease up all the way back to Clarence House.

Once he accompanied his prince through the door, the reason for that became obvious. The Prince of Wales, usually careful about what he said in front of servants or security personnel, threw all caution to the wind as soon as he spotted his son. Michael had been an observer of such beratings a few times when on Harry-sitting duty, but never with William. Never with the older prince, who was so aware of his duties. He managed to fade into the background and leave unobtrusively when the argument turned onto topics far too personal to be discussed in front of an audience.

"Bad night," Stuart, the officer at the main door, remarked when Michael stopped by to check tomorrow's appointments. "You on duty tomorrow? I imagine William's going to want to leave early."

"It seems so... I might as well stay here for the night."

"The ready room's not occupied, feel free to get some sleep. Paul's going to come by later with Prince Harry, but I'm not expecting them until early morning."

Michael raised an eyebrow. "Clubbing? Or did he guess that tonight was going to be uncomfortable at home?"

"The latter, probably. I tell you, Harry's got a nose for that sort of thing."

"That he does. Can't blame him for hiding until this blows over, even though I'm sure William would have appreciated the company." Michael patted Stuart's shoulder. "Have a quiet night, mate," he said, then headed for the small side room that served the Clarence House security detail as break room and occasional overnight lodgings.

He'd just readied himself for sleep when his cell phone rang. An unknown number, and unfamiliar-looking too. Rubbing his hand across his face, Michael took the call.

"Gray here, who's this?"

"Inspector Gray? Officer Sven Andersson, Säkerhetspolisen."

Michael blinked. "Säpo? I wasn't aware we're going to be doing anything together."

On the other end of the line, Sven laughed. "Neither are we, I'm afraid. Michael, I apologise for disturbing you at this time."

"Never mind, I wasn't asleep yet. What is it? You're not just calling from Sweden for a chat, I guess." He sat down on the narrow bed and leaned back against the pillows, then straightened again when the temptation of sleep was almost immediate.

"No, I am calling on behalf of the prince," Sven said. "My prince, that is, Prince Carl Philip. He has asked for Prince William's phone number."

"And you need that right now?"

"He has just heard the news regarding Prince William, and he's concerned." Sven paused, then went on. "He wants to know whether the prince is well."

"Couldn't he go through official channels for that?" Michael grumbled, then pinched the bridge of his nose. "Don't answer that, I know he can't. Why that sudden concern?"

"It seems the princes have befriended each other during the wedding of the Crown Princess. Prince Carl Philip has been quite worried when he heard about the break-up, and he thinks he might offer a sympathetic ear."

"He's split with his girlfriend too, hasn't he?" Michael knew the ins and outs of his royal family, but he wasn't paying too close attention on the other European royal houses. As far as he was concerned, the Windsors were more than enough to keep him occupied.

"An amiable separation, but yes. Miss Emma has left a few months ago." Sven cleared his throat. "If it helps, I'm certain Prince Carl Philip has only the best in mind for Prince William."

Probably, Michael thought. He hadn't seen too much of the Swedish prince, but William had seemed to like him. And who knew, perhaps it helped to have a fellow young royal to talk to who'd just weathered a similar situation.

"Give him this number," he said and dictated William's cell phone number. "It's not secure, tell him that too. No state secrets on that line."

Sven repeated the number to him. "Of course not. Thank you, Michael. I hope this will cheer up Prince William a little."

"I'll let you know if it does. And even if not, well, we change the number every few months, so no harm done."

Two tense days full of royal arguments later, Michael caught the end of a phone conversation when he went to fetch his prince for the scheduled afternoon appointments.

"Yes, yes, you just like to hear me moan," William was saying, a smile on his face. "We've established that. Listen, I've got to go. I'll call you back. And don't get lost in all that Swedish wilderness until then."

That evening, when he had delivered his prince to Buckingham Palace for the reception that was taking place there, Michael took out his own phone and went through the call lists looking for the number with the Swedish country code.

"Sven? Mike. I just wanted to let you know that it cheered him up, so thanks for that. No, I'm not busy right now..."

***

Under normal circumstances, trade exhibitions were boring tasks for the Royalty Protection Department. Long stretches of booths, all showing what seemed to be the same things, and strange things they sometimes were. But Prince William was an expert by now in showing interest in pottery, new electronic gadgets, designer scarves, even shrubberies for the Chelsea Flower Show. And Michael was an expert in not letting anyone get too close to his prince with pointy objects, whether they were knives or radio antennae.

This November's designer exhibition, however, promised to be a good deal more entertaining. There would still be pointy objects - a lot of them, even, given that there would be a whole section dedicated to cutlery, and there was no bloody way Michael would allow his prince to walk past rows and rows of sharpened knives. But the week before the exhibition was taking place, Michael received the news that a Swedish delegation would be involved.

Swedish delegation, he soon found out, meant Prince Carl Philip and a lone security officer called Sven. It looked as though the Swedes were not particularly concerned that someone might attempt to snatch their prince.

"So why are you shipping a prince over to us for this?" he asked Sven in a phone call - official this time - later that day.

"It's houseware design, he's qualified," Sven said. "We've already had to arrange for several sets of his cutlery to be packed as gifts for Buckingham Palace."

Michael blinked in surprise. "All right... I'll let the security staff there know, no point in surprising them."

"They might be a bit startled to find a group of Swedes with briefcases full of knives," Sven agreed amiably. "Anyway, the prince has asked for this one. He says he wants a trip to London, and this way he can do something useful while he's there."

"He probably can, too. Prince William's going to be happy about the company. They do seem to get along quite well."

Passing his prince's phone number on to the Swedes had turned out to be a better move than Michael had initially thought. The calls happened frequently - part of Michael's duties was checking the prince's phone logs, and Swedish numbers were cropping up more and more often, and for longer calls. It looked as if William and Prince Carl Philip had gotten into the habit of frequent talks late at night, probably the only time they both were free and unobserved. If either of them had been a girl, Michael might have been concerned.

Together with Sven, he went over the security details and the itinerary for the two princes. The Royalty Protection Department would take over most of the duties; this was their turf, after all.

"The Queen's office suggests for Prince Carl Philip to stay at Clarence House for the duration of his visit," Michael said. "Does that work for you or would you prefer to put him somewhere neutral?"

"I don't see any problems with it." Through the phone, Michael heard Sven shuffle through papers. "Carl Philip hasn't specified anything, and given that he and your Prince William are getting along fine, we might as well put them in one place and not bother with driving them back and forth every evening. Is there anywhere I can stay? If the Prince is in Clarence House, I need to be in the building."

"No problem, we've got security quarters there if you don't mind bunking with me. I'll be your liaison for the whole thing, so I'll be sticking close to our guest as well."

Sven laughed "Not a problem, Mike, no. So that's all settled then?"

"Yes, all fine. We'll make sure your prince gets home unmolested and in one piece."

***

"Do you think he's safe?" Sven asked, brushing raindrops off his coat for the third time since they had stepped into the entrance hall of St. James Palace to wait for Prince Carl Philip to finish his audience.

Michael shot him a jaundiced look. "He's in there with the Queen, of course he's safe. What do you think she'll do to him, have him for lunch?"

Sven seemed to consider that very possibility. "You did say Prince William doesn't know he is here," he pointed out. "I'm beginning to wonder why."

"Because we're planning to kidnap Prince Carl Philip and ransom him for his younger sister so we can marry her off to Harry," Michael said, not batting an eyelash. "I was going to tell him in the weekly security briefing, but he caught a cold and we had to cancel it. There just never was a good moment, and I only noticed this morning that nobody put your prince on his schedule."

"Ah well then." Sven adjusted his cuffs, then shrugged. "You know, Madeleine would eat Prince Harry alive."

"You haven't met Harry yet," Michael countered, then straightened when the doors opened and Prince William came inside. The prince had been out with one of the other security officers today; never a happy situation for Michael. He didn't like delegating his prince's safety. But the Swedes had to be collected at London City airport, and as the official liaison officer, Michael had to be there.

Not that it hadn't been nice to meet up with Sven again. It just would have been better if that hadn't meant leaving William with someone else for the duration.

After a few minutes William came out of the Queen's study again, Prince Carl Philip in tow. He looked a little baffled, Michael noticed, with the small smile he usually only wore on days that had gone particularly well.

"Back to Clarence House, sir?" he asked.

William nodded, and within moments they were on their way. It was almost stupid to take the car for what normally would be a two minutes' walk around the corner, but with the rain it was the preferable option. They pulled up in front of Clarence House before Michael could even shift up to third gear.

One day they'd install a covered walkway and be done with it, he thought as he looked at St. James Palace behind them. Or an underground tunnel, people were always fond of that sort of thing.

Once everyone was inside, Michael waited for the princes to head upstairs to William's apartment before turning to Sven.

"Has your prince made any plans for the evening?" he asked. "I had a dinner on my schedule for Prince William, but that's been cancelled, it seems."

Sven shook his head. "Nothing I know of," he said. "But let me go and ask."

They followed the princes upstairs and just turned into the corridor leading to William's rooms when Michael saw the two of them vanish into the laundry closet.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

"Let's just ask them later."

Sven looked at the closet door a few steps down the hallway, then at Michael, eyebrows raised inquiringly as he was led back downstairs again.

"That laundry closet is off limits," Michael explained as soon as he had Sven in the guards' ready room with the door closed behind them. "This room aside, it's the only place in all of Clarence House that's definitely bug free."

"You have problems with that?" Sven asked. "The staff?"

Michael nodded. "We've had a few situations over the years, and whenever we sweep, something's bound to turn up. Usually in the public reception rooms, but there've been other incidents too. The princes are aware of it; they've borrowed at least two bug scanners from us they never returned, and Paul - that's Harry's primary security officer - showed them how to properly use the things."

A necessary precaution with Harry, anyway. You could never be sure who he might bring home and what sorts of things they might get up to in his apartment. In that mess, no-one would ever find a bug the size of a tennis ball without special equipment.

"And why sweep a walk-in laundry closet?" Sven asked.

"Size. It's easy to do in a minute or two; for the apartments you'd need a good twenty minutes. The princes use that closet whenever they have to talk about something that's supposed to stay quiet, we keep an eye on it, and the maids have standing orders that they're only allowed to open that door when the princes aren't in residence."

Sven shook his head. "Your press is far too aggressive," he said. "Even with the Crown Princess we've never had to go that far."

"A good scandal's worth a lot of money, unfortunately. We screen the staff, but you can never be completely sure." Michael sat down on a chair at the small table and gestured for Sven to take the other. "So we let the princes talk about whatever they need to discuss, and just check on them in a few minutes. How is it going with you?"

"Quite well actually, now that they've moved me to Prince Carl Philip permanently," Sven said, taking a seat too. "It's far easier with him than with the Crown Princess."

"A lot less attention, I imagine," Michael said.

"Yes, and fewer appointments, too. Though I'm still trying to find out what this private life is that some people talk about."

Michael laughed. "Yeah, I know that feeling. Once you're doing security detail on a royal, you might as well give up the idea of having a life of your own. I go out four or five nights a week, but always with the prince. I can't even remember the last time I was on a date that was my own."

"Two years ago, I think mine was." Sven leaned back in his chair. "The only people I go out with are other security officers, and it never quite works as a romantic evening when everyone has to keep an eye on their charge."

Michael patted him on the shoulder. "Ah well, you can go out with me for the next few days," he said. "We'll make it a double date with the princes."

"Wonderful," Sven grinned. "The other guards will envy me for my catch."

The look on the Swedish officer's face was a little too speculative for Michael not to wonder how to take that comment, but he dismissed it.

They had a cup of tea - this was Britain, coffee was for the weak - and chatted for a while until Sven glanced at the clock of his cell phone.

"Shall we check on them? I really need to know whether anything is planned for tonight, and it has been a good fifty minutes."

"I do, too," Michael said, standing up. "Let's see if they're out of the closet by now."

They went upstairs again, and a careful knock at the door of the laundry closet showed it to be empty. Whatever the princes had needed to talk about had apparently been resolved. Either that, or they had been devoured by man-eating towels. Michael was trained to expect threats from unlikely directions, but that one seemed far-fetched even to him.

"The Prince's apartment, probably," Michael said and led the way down the corridor to the high door on the right.

He had his hand raised to knock when a sound from inside made him freeze.

Carefully turning his head, he saw that Sven had the same shocked expression on his face.

"Was that-" he whispered.

A happy moan interrupted him before he could say anything further. Or needed to.

They stared at each other, eyes wide.

When they heard dim words that might have been "oh yes, Carl", Sven had to lean against the door, his knees probably as wobbly as Michael's.

Inside, things went quiet. Michael and Sven looked at each other, then beat a hasty retreat around the corner. In silent agreement, they made for the laundry closet.

The door shut behind them, they both drew several deep breaths before they looked at each other again.

"That was..." Michael trailed off, gesturing vaguely.

"Maybe we misheard," Sven said hopefully.

They considered it. Then shook their heads.

"Don't think so," Michael said.

Sven muttered something unfriendly in Swedish and leaned back against the shelves full of linens behind him. "We're not going to tell anyone," he said.

Michael nodded. "And pray they think of bug sweeping as a form of foreplay," he said, then winced as the image of the young man second in line to the Swedish throne doing highly inappropriate things to his prince came to mind.

"Well," said Sven, a little too cheerfully, "at least we don't have to worry about them getting each other pregnant."

***

Stuart looked up from his newspaper when Sven and Michael came by his desk at the front door. "Off duty?" he asked.

Michael nodded. "Until morning. We're just going to get something to eat from the kitchen."

"And the princes, are they going to go out?"

Michael and Sven exchanged a look.

"No, they're busy," Michael said.

"Probably will be for the rest of the evening," Sven added.

They collected dinner and a few beers from the kitchen, then retreated to the guards' ready room. A second bed had been set up for Sven, which made the little room rather cramped, but there still was enough space around the table for them to sit.

After putting down his plate, Michael went back and made sure the door was closed. "We've done a bug sweep here earlier today," he said, uncapping two bottles of beer and passing one to Sven.

"So... what do we do?" Sven asked, taking a sip. "I don't think telling them is a good idea."

"Probably not, no." Michael sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Remember at the wedding? Guess we know now why it took so long to get a fresh shirt. And the phone calls, too."

"They need to be careful," Sven said as he picked at the bottle's label. "Today... anyone could have heard."

"We must make sure they don't get caught. They can't go and see each other without someone from security coming along, so we'll just have to make sure it's us."

Sven looked sceptical at that, but nodded. "That should be possible," he said. "With some luck."

They contemplated that.

"Ah well," Michael said and took another swig of beer, "at least it's not Harry. We'd never survive that one."

***

A few bottles later, they were well into speculative territory.

"I bet you ten of your funny Swedish money that my prince tops," Michael announced cheerfully.

Sven blinked. "You're on," he said. "That didn't sound like you'd win. And it's kronor."

"Ten kronor, then."

"That's about one pound."

Michael shrugged. "Doesn't much matter. As long as they're having fun."

Sven raised his beer in a toast. "To Anglo-Swedish relations," he said.

Relations Michael found he rather liked by now. Other than his co-workers, Sven was possibly the person he had talked to most for the past months. They had gotten into a habit of phone calls whenever one of them was in the mood for a chat, and it always cheered Michael up now to see Swedish numbers on his mobile.

"I don't see why he's got to fall for a Brit," Sven wondered a little later. "Plenty of nice Swedish guys back home."

"But nobody like Prince William, I bet. Charming, handsome," Michael began to tick the points off with his fingers, "heir to a throne, in a bit, and of course a great kisser. We British all are."

Sven laughed at that, and it was the logical thing to do for Michael to get up and prove his point.

The first kiss was for show. The second was because Sven had seemed to like the first one, and Michael wouldn't want to be a poor host and disappoint. By the fifth, all thoughts of politeness were gone from his mind.

Anglo-Swedish relations got improved a lot further that night.

***

Waking up sprawled half on top of a member of the Swedish Säkerhetspolisen was not a regular thing for Royalty Protection Department officers to do. At least, Michael hadn't been briefed about that part of the job if it was.

He raised his head and saw that Sven was awake as well. For a moment, they looked at each other, then Sven cleared his throat.

"I concede, the prince may have a point in picking a Brit," he remarked, voice rough from sleep.

Michael laughed, then reached up to touch Sven's face. "Told you so," he said quietly and carefully moved off him.

They lay together for a little longer, Sven's hand tangled in Michael's hair, idly combing through the short strands. It was comfortable, a lot more than Michael had thought it might be, and also a little frightening.

"Are we all right?" Sven asked eventually, voicing the question that had been on Michael's mind as well. You didn't just fall into bed with someone and expect a non-awkward response the next morning, but it looked as though this time it might just be.

Michael looked up so they could meet each other's eyes. "We are," he said, then leaned in for a brief kiss, not allowing himself to linger. "Come on, rise and shine. It's past six already."

Sven frowned up at him. "Of course, an early riser. I should have known." He sat up and rubbed a hand across his face, leaving it to cover his eyes. "They'll have a late morning, I expect."

"So?"

Sven fluttered his eyelashes at him. "So there's plenty of time for us to... discuss diplomatic implications."

"Is that what they call it these days?" Michael muttered, but obediently let himself be drawn down again.

They had to get up eventually, of course; fortunately the princes didn't seem to be interested in an early start into the day.

Until yesterday, Michael would just have shrugged at that and gotten himself a second cup of tea while he waited. Now, as he stood at the main door, Sven at his side, he was far too occupied with hoping that the two young men had enough sense not to leave anything suspicious lying around. It was a huge relief to see them come down the stairs eventually, first William and then Carl Philip a few minutes later, properly dressed and without any love bites showing.

Past months of being on Harry-watching duty had left their marks. At least William had a bit more sense. He couldn't help watching the princes for any signs that something was going on, and he knew that Sven was doing the same. But there was nothing that hinted at them being anything but friends.

He said as much later in the car on the way to the exhibition centre, with the princes safely behind the tinted glass in the back of the car.

"They know how to play a role," Sven said, glancing over the list of already implemented security measures one last time. "I don't think they're going to start making out in the middle of the tableware exhibition."

"They'd better not, we don't have enough security personnel for the stampede that would cause." Michael slowed for a red light, and turned to look at Sven. "Do you think it's just a fling?" he asked.

Sven thought about it. "Hard to tell, isn't it? But I know that Carl Philip hasn't been involved with anyone since before the wedding. And hasn't Prince William left Miss Middleton since then? It seems a bit too much for just a casual way of passing the time."

The light turned green and Michael accelerated again. "So they'll be trying to see more of each other," he said.

"Probably."

"Which means you and I are going to see more of each other, too." He risked a glance to the left, just a brief one.

Just enough to see the little smile on Sven's face. "I'd like that."

Michael returned the smile. "I'd like that too," he said.

***

The exhibition went down as expected. A small crowd of people that followed them around, rows and rows of booths with more or less strange things inside. Michael amused himself by attempting to guess at the purpose of some of the items held out for princely scrutiny; he was fairly sure the thing William was holding right now was a coffee pot, but there was a small chance it might be a lamp. Maybe both, you never knew with these designer items.

"Everything clear?" Sven asked him as the two princes went into a larger booth dedicated to growing weeds on living room furniture. The area they were in now had been roped off earlier to let the judges of a contest have a look at the entries in peace, and the princes had taken advantage of that to actually see some of the exhibits without a flock of reporters and photographers following them around.

Michael nodded, slowly turning to keep an eye on their surroundings. "We'll be fine as long as we're in this section," he said. "There's a little crowd at the exit, but Helen just radioed that the press is starting to leave. They've had their photo ops, now they're off. A few are hanging around, but since it's your prince and not mine who's awarding the prices, they aren't that interested."

"Good to know. How much longer, do you think?"

"They said the awards would be given out at eleven." Michael glanced down at his watch. "Fifteen minutes until then, plus another fifteen or so for the awards, since there's no ceremony involved. Why, you got plans?"

Sven moved closer so their shoulders brushed for a moment. "Perhaps," he said, his voice suggestive enough to make Michael blink. The brief surprise must have shown, because Sven stepped back again. "Don't worry, Mike. Nothing too outrageous."

"I wasn't worried about that," Michael protested. "I'm just... adjusting."

The look he received was not entirely convinced, but apparently he'd sounded genuine enough to make Sven let the matter rest.

It took some adjustment, too, given that he seemed to have acquired at the very least an international affair when he'd been more or less resigned that his love life was going to collect dust for a while. And it might very well be limited to a few days, even if the princes turned out to have an actual relationship. Michael wasn't quite sure he wanted to get into that sort of thing. For that matter, he didn't know whether Sven wanted it, either.

Carl Philip would return to Sweden tomorrow evening. Whatever they decided, it was going to have to be soon.

***

With the weather turning from somewhat rainy to fog interrupted by occasional torrential downpours, the princes weren't interested in going out for the rest of the day. Usually, Michael would have cheerfully taken them back to Clarence House without a second thought. Now he was left wondering what it would look like if they spent the afternoon and evening in William's apartment and whether anyone would suspect anything untoward going on.

Just in case, he left a new bug scanner with fresh batteries in the laundry closet before going over the day's paperwork in the ready room. Sven, with his own stack of lists to check and forms to fill out, joined him and they worked in companionable silence for a while.

It turned into a peaceful early afternoon. Clarence House was quiet, with the Prince of Wales and Prince Harry out and about somewhere and most of the household staff gone by noon. Michael liked days like this: his prince safely upstairs in his apartment and everything else in order without any imminent problems.

Well, aside from that little matter of a Swedish prince up with William. Michael wondered whether the concern he felt was an inherited Anglo-Saxon wariness of Viking invaders. Those were hard enough to resist even when you wanted to, and right now he wasn't sure about that.

"Fancy a walk?" Sven asked after a while.

Michael glanced at the windows and the wall of water that was currently coming down outside. "Right now?"

Sven followed his look. "Sure, why not?"

Briefly contemplating the insanity of Swedes where the weather was concerned - and this was Britain, a drizzle was counted as perfectly acceptable - Michael got up and went in search of umbrellas.

The one advantage of London during a November downpour was that not even tourists went out. It made for a quiet walk down the Mall, without having to constantly evade hordes of camera-armed people in sandals.

They turned into St. James Park, completely deserted on this day. The only sounds were the crunching of gravel under their shoes and the pelting rain on the umbrellas, a soothing background noise.

"So," Sven said eventually when they turned down towards the lake, "we'll be leaving tomorrow."

"Seems like it," Michael said cautiously.

Silence settled again between them.

"This was a lot easier this morning," Sven said with an audible sigh. "Listen, you know our princes are going to be seeing each other. I need to know where that leaves us."

"On airplanes going back and forth across the North Sea," Michael said before he could stop himself. The look he received from Sven told him that the other man wasn't impressed. "I know, I know," he said, raising his hand in a placating gesture. "It's just... I don't know what to expect from this. I like you, I really do, but... how long do we know each other, when it's all tallied up? Two days, perhaps three, not counting the phone calls? I simply have no idea what to make of this."

"Me neither," Sven admitted. "Just so you know, I really like you too. And I don't go for one-night stands. What we're doing... I'd like to keep it up, but we both know that's not going to be easy."

Michael nodded, looking across the water. A small army of ducks was paddling towards them, trained to view every visitor to the park as a source of food.

"I guess the question is whether we want to try," he said.

"That would be it."

The first endeavouring ducks had reached the shore and were now quacking up at them in righteous indignation at the lack of forthcoming food. Mike looked down at them as he formulated an answer in his head.

"I want to see what we can make of this, and not just because we're bound to run into each other again," he said. "But under one condition."

Sven watched him expectantly.

"The rest of this visit is for getting to know each other better. I barely even know your last name."

"Andersson," Sven supplied helpfully.

"Yes, yes, it was just an example."

Sven laughed. "I know, Mike. And I agree. More talking, less sex."

Michael looked at him, eyebrows raised. "Maybe we don't need to go quite that far."

Kissing in the rain looked a lot more romantic in movies than it turned out to be. Icy water dripped down on them from their tilted umbrellas, Sven flinched back when the handle of Michael's poked him hard in the ribs, and Michael could feel his shoes slowly soaking through.

He couldn't have cared less, though. They stayed in each other's arms for a while, just standing still and savouring.

Until Sven pulled away, that was. "Mike?"

"Yes?"

"I think those ducks are going to mug us in a second if we don't move."

Reluctantly Michael let go of him. "St. James Park ducks," he explained. "They've been fed for decades by secret service agents. Now the bloody things see someone who's security, they expect food. Be glad you aren't MI5, or they'd have brought you down and searched your pockets in a coordinated attack by now."

Sven looked at the ducks, then Michael to judge whether that was a joke. Then he pointedly stepped back from the shoreline.

"Don't worry," Michael told him. "I'll keep you safe from the evil duckies."

***

The next time they met, a few weeks later when Sven showed up at the door of Michael's apartment for a weekend visit, they inadvertedly had a lot more time to talk.

"It was stupid, really," Michael said, clumsily unscrewing a bottle of water with his left hand. "William and Harry were out Wednesday evening, and when they came out of the club, a woman tried to push through to them. I tried to stop her, she slipped, we both fell over, and, well," he shrugged, "I broke my arm."

"Will you be all right?" Sven asked. He took the bottle from Michael and poured them both a glass, then re-capped it.

Michael glared at the bottle, then shrugged again. "The doctor says it's uncomplicated. The cast stays on for three weeks, after that they want me to take it easy for another. It doesn't even hurt that much, it's just bloody irritating."

"If it's necessary..."

"Oh, I'm not going to saw it off or anything. But you try taking a shower when you mustn't get your arm wet. I'm having to take baths. I hate baths."

Sven gave him a peck on the cheek, then wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. "I'm sure we can find ways to make it worth your while," he whispered in Michael's ear.

Michael turned his head to kiss him back, properly this time. "That sounds like an idea."

Things were just beginning to become interesting when Michael forgot that his right arm wasn't functional, tried to slip it underneath Sven's shirt, caught the cast at the hem of the other man's pants, twisted his arm without thinking, and was rewarded with a flash of pain bright enough to make him see stars. He managed a yelp, but that was it.

"Mike?"

He couldn't answer. Breathing was enough of a challenge right now. Dimly he was aware that Sven was untangling them, then he was herded over to the couch and pushed down. A glass of water appeared at his mouth and he took a grateful sip.

"Damn it," he panted when he found his voice again. His arm was emphatically making its irritation at its mistreatment known and sending up merry flares of pain.

Sven sat down at his side, careful not to touch. "Looks like we'll not be doing anything acrobatic," he said, eyes full of concern. "Are you really all right?"

"As long as I don't make stupid moves." He cautiously raised his good arm to take the water glass from Sven and hold it himself. "Sorry."

"Never mind, just stop trying to be heroic and tell me if something hurts."

"It's just so stupid. Breaking my arm because I fell over? Not the sort of bodyguard story they'll ever make into a film."

Sven snorted. "I'll talk to the next offender for you so they shoot you in the shoulder or something," he said. "But really, you're better off than me. The first time the job put me on sick leave was when I got out of the car, went back to open the door for Carl Philip, and slipped on a patch of ice. He ended up having to drive me to hospital with a cracked tailbone."

"Ouch." Michael patted his knee sympathetically.

"You'd feel even sorrier for me if you had any idea of his driving style. He's good when you put him in a Porsche GT on a race track, but it's quite scary when he uses the same cornering techniques in the middle of Stockholm."

Michael took another sip of water, then put the glass down and leaned against Sven, perfectly happy to let himself be distracted for now. "Race track?"

"He's got a racing license," Sven said, carefully sliding his arm around Michael's shoulders and drawing him close. "It makes the life of us security officers quite interesting now that he insists on competing professionally."

"I can imagine that! What series does he drive in?"

"The Carrera Cup Scandinavia," Sven said, and their talk wandered off to car races, then cars in general, then meandered along to whatever came to mind.

Both of them had taken their talk in St. James Park - the evil duck place, as Sven insisted on calling it - seriously, and Michael was a lot more comfortable with the whole situation now than he had been before. They were still getting to know each other, but they had the basics down by now. It had been quite a relief to find out that there was nothing to dislike.

Well, almost nothing. Sven's love for curling was still being debated, as was Michael's dislike for Swedish rotten fish. They were confident, however, that they could get over this.

They spent the rest of the afternoon on the couch, chatting companionably. There had been plenty of phone calls since their last meeting - Michael had never before had reason to be that grateful for free international phone service to be included in his job benefits package - but it was far more fun to do this face to face.

He was, however, well aware that Sven hadn't come all the way across the North Sea just to chat. But when he tried to make a move, he was carefully but firmly rebuffed.

"We're not going to do this now," Sven told him, keeping his cast-free hand captive so it couldn't wander again. "Believe it or not, but I don't think of screams of agony as a particular turn-on."

Looking away, Michael sighed. "Sorry," he said. "I just don't want to spoil the fun completely."

This earned him an exasperated sigh and a stern glower. "I'm enjoying myself here, and I think you are too. If you're feeling a bit less... fractured... before I have to go back, we'll make something of that. And if not, then you'll just have to come to Stockholm and make it up to me." Sven paused. "Actually, you can help me with something now."

"Sure, what is it?"

"Just a little task Carl Philip has charged me with..."

***

Talking Stuart into an alteration of the security schedule was far too easy. On the one hand, Michael was happy that he could slip Sven into the car for a few minutes to deliver his package and message. On the other hand, he was irritated to no end by the same thing.

"They really should object more," he complained to Sven as they planted the little bag with the cell phone and charger in the back of the armoured car. "All Stuart did was ask whether you know anything about right-hand drive."

"He knows me and he knows that I have top security clearances, that puts him at ease." Sven re-checked the latch of the side compartment he had put the phone in, then climbed out of the car. "Besides, you're here with me. It's not like I am unobserved."

"What am I supposed to do if you decide to change plans, hit you over the head with my cast? I can see that working really well." Michael scowled at the car. Sure, it was in a guarded garage and nobody could get past it, but that didn't mean it was tamper-proof. He'd have to rewrite the security protocols for this.

After they'd performed their own little security breach, of course.

Prince William, to his credit, reacted to the unexpected guard change just as he had been taught to. No sudden actions, nice and calm until he had assessed the situation. He couldn't see Michael in the front passenger seat, fortunately; it would have been hard to explain what was going on otherwise. Besides, it probably was more romantic in the eyes of the prince to have his lover send Swedish security officers for clandestine deliveries.

Michael had already had a talk with Sven about delivering similar gifts by mail the next time. It wasn't as though the Royalty Protection Department was incapable of getting something through postal inspections.

Sven had countered that it was a perfect opportunity for a brief trip to London, and surely Michael didn't want to risk a secure phone with a direct line to the man second in line to the throne of Sweden falling into the wrong hands.

Michael had wondered aloud what harm could come of it. At best, whoever called wouldn't even understand whatever Swedish was spoken on the other end, and at worst, Carl Philip would have to endure a moment of random fanpersoning before getting a different phone number.

By the time Sven had pointed out that it was far too much of a hassle, and besides, the Swedish royal family liked to keep their phone numbers, thank you very much, they were back in Michael's apartment. Michael's argument that the Swedes were getting lazy was met with a highly distracting kiss, which he heroically countered.

It earned him a restraining hand on his chest that kept him flat on his back, and a hand on his cock that rendered him incapable of refuting Sven's closing statement that it was a cell phone, nothing else, and he should stop making a fuss. It was an unfair, but highly effective tactic to shut him up for a while.

***

Whatever he had done to deserve being sent to Northern Sweden in the middle of winter, it had to have been truly horrible. Even Harry-watching duty in London would have been preferable.

Standing next to him on the driveway up to the lodge, Paul was having similar thoughts. "I have no idea what I did," he said. "Go off to an icy wasteland with Prince Harry, Paul, and keep him out of trouble." He stuffed his gloved hands into his coat pockets. "He'll get himself eaten by polar bears, just wait for it."

"I don't think they have polar bears in Sweden," Michael said, watching the younger Bernadottes greet their guests. William's delighted grin was being matched by Carl Philip's, but fortunately the Swedish princesses looked equally happy at having British company so nobody was likely to notice.

"He'll find one, just to be contrary." Paul sneezed and hunched his shoulders. "At least you don't have to worry about Prince William doing anything he's not supposed to."

It took quite an effort not to laugh with disbelief at that, but Michael managed. "I'm sure he'll behave himself," he said.

On the plus side, there wasn't all that much trouble the princes could get themselves into and it was almost a holiday for the security officers as well. The townspeople were used to seeing their royal family a few times a year, so they left them in peace except for huge grins on their faces if one of them was spotted. They even misdirected the handful of paparazzi who'd followed the British guests, and the Säpo and the weather took care of the rest of them. The biggest incident of the whole stay was Prince Harry getting himself bitten by a tame elk.

"It's almost like he does it on purpose," Paul said later that evening. They were sitting in the main room of the small side building they shared with the Säpo officers, warming up after a day spent outside.

Helen, in charge of Princesses Beatrice and Eugenie, gave a very un-ladylike snort at that. "He's a child, Paul, face it. He'll need at least another decade before he has any chance of behaving like an adult."

"Easy for you to talk, your princesses are perfect," Paul countered. "Girls are much easier to watch, anyway."

That brought in the Säpo officers guarding the Swedish princesses, who had their own harrowing tales to tell of midnight escapes into Stockholm, disappearances during travel, and an incident involving a little Madeleine playing hide-and seek in the Malmö train station and vanishing on a departing train to Copenhagen. It was quickly agreed that princesses were a lot worse, if only because they looked so much more innocent and you could never tell what they were up to.

Michael exchanged a look with Sven and knew that they were thinking the same: if only the others knew...

***

"I still smell like wet fur," Michael complained a few evenings later, after the day had been spent dog sledding.

Sven shot him an amused look. "Need some help in the shower, do you?" he asked as he filled the kettle. They had offered to make tea for everyone; a welcome chance for a few moments alone in the tiny kitchen.

"Tempting offer. Can I take you up on that when I don't have to worry about Helen walking in on us?" Michael spooned heaps of tea leaves into the filter, then fixed it in the pot. "I'm fairly sure she's puzzled it out, along with her Säpo girlfriends. They keep getting that look on their faces whenever they see me."

"What look?" Sven asked.

"The 'aww, look at him' one. And from your girls it's sometimes also the 'don't you dare hurt him' variation." Michael shook his head, then leaned in for a brief kiss. "As if I'd ever do that."

Sven laughed and gave him a quick hug. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me, it's self-preservation. You told me you got sniper training."

They had eventually decided to simply let things happen and stop worrying about it. With their charges, they had seen often enough how stress and secrecy could ruin a relationship before it could become strong enough to last. They weren't going anywhere beyond pats on the shoulder in public, but they weren't censoring themselves. It helped that they had made the effort to let their friendship catch up with the sex, too. So far, Michael was fairly sure that all their female colleagues had figured it out while the men remained ignorant. There was that odd feeling that the women were finding them far too cute.

He had mentioned this to Sven. Sven had pointed out that the girls also gave them the biggest cinnamon rolls for breakfast as a result.

The topic got dropped. The rolls were simply too good, and Michael could live with the occasional female cooing.

They all had an early night that evening; there was more skiing scheduled for the morning, and even the Swedes were starting to show the strain of following their respective royals around. Winter holidays were fun, but Michael could have wished for William to have received a less thorough skiing instruction. Or for Carl Philip to stop goading him into downhill races.

That night, Michael wasn't certain what woke him. He didn't hear anything, and none of the alarms had gone off. But he got up nonetheless; better to listen to your instincts and consider them paranoid afterwards than miss something important.

The house was dark and quiet, and everyone was asleep save for one figure at the window facing towards the main house.

"They're being careless," Sven said by way of greeting.

Michael came to his side. "In what way?" he asked, looking out the window.

Sven pointed at the two princes, out on the walkway around the house. They were holding each other close, and while Michael couldn't see it clearly, he'd have bet they were kissing.

"They've been doing that for the last five minutes," Sven said. "Right in front of Princess Victoria's bedroom window. If anyone else comes outside to take a look at the northern lights, they'll get caught."

"Northern lights?" It was bright outside, but Michael had attributed that to the full moon. He tried to get a good look at the sky, but the balcony above the window blocked the view.

Sven slipped an arm around his waist. "You want to go outside?"

"No, we'll just disturb them," Michael said with regret. He wanted to see the northern lights, but not if it cost William time with his lover. His prince was having a hard enough time already with the secrecy and the infrequent meetings.

After another look at the couple outside, Sven nodded. "Let's try the window on the other side," he said. "We might see more from there."

***

The Swedish visit wrapped up with Princess Victoria's security officer telling them that the Princess was pregnant and therefore wasn't to be tackled to the ground unless absolutely necessary. The announcement sent all the Säpos into an impromptu party, one Michael happily participated in once he figured out what that meant for his prince and the future availability of Carl Philip.

They all returned to London two days later; Helen delivered the princesses to their father, and the princes were returned to Clarence House. With daily routines quickly settling in again, Michael had little time to miss Sven. The trip to Sweden had been good, and they were looking at a few weekends in the upcoming months when they'd be off duty at the same time. Long-distance relationships weren't ideal, but they were obviously doable.

How far some people were willing to go for that became clear a week later. Prince William was in Hastings for a friend's wedding the day before, staying at a cottage that belonged to the Duchess of York. Initially he'd been supposed to go by himself, but when it had turned out that there was no security or household staff present beyond an elderly woman guarding the gate while selling coffee at the roadside, Michael had invited himself along. The prince hadn't looked too thrilled at the prospect.

The day was a quiet one until a highly unexpected phone call from Sven noisily interrupted the peace in the middle of the morning. Michael picked up, and didn't get beyond half a greeting.

"Have you seen Carl Philip?"

Blinking, Michael looked around. "No, I haven't," he said, then pointed out the obvious, "he's in Sweden."

"No, he isn't."

"He isn't?" Michael went cold. "You lost him? How long ago?" A small voice in the back of his mind reminded him that it was officially none of his business if someone else lost their royal, a foreign one at that, but he didn't listen to it. Prince William's lover was gone, and his own lover was going to be in trouble over it.

"Twenty hours since we've last seen him." Sven sounded a lot more frantic than Michael had known him to be so far.

"Do you know if he's still in the country?" It was a scary thing to put himself into Sven's shoes. If William ever went missing, Michael was not certain what he'd do. Panic, most likely. You didn't lose your prince, you simply didn't. He went over to the window to have a little more privacy, even though he was the only one at the desk right now.

"Impossible to tell. One of the cars is gone, but we don't know if he took it and where he went."

Outside the house, Michael saw a sports car pull up. It had Swedish number plates. And to have gotten through the checks at the gate, someone must have authorized it. Since Michael hadn't done that, it only left Prince William.

Michael had the sneaking suspicion that he knew what was going on here. "What sort of car?" he asked. "A Porsche?"

"Yes, but that doesn't matter right now, Mike. We need to-"

"A GT? White?" The car outside probably was, under all that road dust. Michael didn't think twenty hours had allowed for a stop to wash it.

There was silence on the other end of the line.

"He looks a bit stiff," Michael reported as he watched the prince get out of the car. "Can't blame him, I guess, that must have been a non-stop drive. He must have made good time on those German autobahns, too."

Carl Philip was coming up the steps to the entrance. Michael went to open the door, nodded a greeting, then held out the phone to him. "For you, your Highness. Your security officer."

If the prince was in any way surprised that his sudden appearance didn't seem to be completely unexpected, he didn't show it. Michael took a minute to check out the car, then waited for the prince to finish his call.

"Prince William is in the living room," he said once he heard no more Swedish. "Straight through there."

The prince blinked at him, then handed him the mobile phone. "Thank you," he said.

"My pleasure, Sir."

Stockholm to Hastings in twenty hours, he thought as Carl Philip vanished in the back of the cottage. Not bad. Not bad at all. Now they just had to hope William would let him get some sleep.

***

"Missing a prince again?" Michael asked Sven on the phone a few weeks later. "I seem to have a surplus."

He heard a sigh on the other end of the line. "I'll have to speak to him about this. He really needs to tell us when he leaves like that."

"You said he left you a note the last time." As had Prince William when he vanished, which hadn't done much for Michael's peace of mind. Men directly in the line of succession of the British throne weren't supposed to disappear from their holiday and surface again in Uppsala. He was far more in favour of Carl Philip coming to London; after the second time, nobody among the staff at Clarence House even batted an eyelash anymore when they saw him. The maid had standing orders to keep the guest room in William's apartment ready, and the kitchen had stocked up on Swedish crisp bread.

Sven made a dismissive noise. "He did this time, too. But I wish he would tell me in advance so I can take appropriate precautions. And so you and I could make a few plans, too."

"You can still come over here and pick him up," Michael said. "I'll selflessly offer my couch to poor Säpo men who suddenly find themselves in London and haven't had time to arrange for accommodations."

That earned him a laugh from Sven. "How kind of you. I may just have to take you up on that. Did he say anything about when he's planning to come back to Stockholm?"

Michael looked over his schedule. "No, but William has moved all his non-urgent appointments for the next two days, if that helps. If you plan for the weekend, that looks like a safe bet."

"I'll be there tonight, in that case."

'Tonight' turned into 'early next morning' due to Sven's flight getting cancelled because of a late winter storm. It gave Michael a chance to clean up his apartment a little, though he was sure Sven would have been perfectly willing to ignore the slight chaos in favour of spending one more night together.

The princes were doing them an unintended favour with their increased mutual visits. Someone from security always had to come along - or catch up at the earliest opportunity - and they both were always happy to volunteer for the job when it came up. Michael was starting to be able to get by in Swedish, and Sven had befriended the little old lady in the bakery around the corner from Michael's apartment and somehow got her to make cinnamon rolls.

For an international relationship, it all worked out surprisingly well.

***

It didn't continue that quietly.

The first hint Michael had that something was wrong was that William wasn't at Clarence House when he was supposed to get picked up. That in itself wasn't an issue; it just meant that Michael had to get some more pound sterling changed into kronor and see about the next flights to Sweden.

It all turned a lot more serious, however, when there was a phone call from Sven. Calls during the day never were good; they were in the habit of calling at night even for official matters. A change from habit didn't bode well.

"William is on his way over here," Sven said without preamble as soon as Michael answered. "Carl Philip just told me to pick him up at the airport."

That was a drastic change in the informal protocol the princes had established for their visits. "I'll be on the next plane I can catch," Michael said.

Grabbing the overnight bag he kept at Clarence House was a matter of seconds. His passport was there too; he'd gotten into the habit of carrying it with him now that his prince was making a habit out of crossing international borders without advance warning.

"What happened?" he asked as he went out the door. He'd call Stuart or Helen later and sort things out; if William wasn't in the United Kingdom anyway, then there was little point in Michael staying there.

It sounded as if Sven was in a car now; his voice had the echo of a hands-free kit. "I'm not completely sure. I just know that they took Prince Daniel to hospital yesterday, and they're worried about Victoria now."

"Ah, damn it," Michael muttered. He unlocked the car and slipped in. "How is your prince holding up?," he asked as he turned the ignition key and drove off.

"Not too well; it doesn't help that the King and Queen are abroad right now. He's holding everything together, but he can't do that forever. It's a good thing he called William, he'll need the support."

Michael turned onto Piccadilly, praying for light traffic. "Keep an eye on William for me until I'm there," he said.

"I'll do that. Call me when you are in Stockholm."

The connection terminated; Michael didn't bother putting the phone down but dialled the RPD number for Clarence House immediately. It was Helen who answered; she did assistance duty with the security for the Prince of Wales now whenever the Princesses of York didn't require her.

"Helen? Mike."

"Hi Mike! I was wondering where you were."

"Right now, on Cromwell Road out to Heathrow."

Much to her credit, it didn't take her more than a moment to make the connection. "He's off again?"

Michael had never mentioned a word about William and Carl Philip to anyone except Sven, but of course the meetings hadn't been unnoticed by the rest of the security staff. They were used to seeing the Swedish Prince without a prior announcement now, and they weren't unaware that William had been on more trips to Sweden in the past six months than in his entire life before that. Whether they had also put the last pieces of the puzzle together was anyone's guess; Michael certainly wasn't going to ask.

"Yes, and it might take a few days. I was supposed to take over for Paul on Friday, make sure he knows he needs to find another replacement instead."

He heard her scribble. "Noted. Anything else you need me to do?"

"No... actually, yes, check Heathrow for flights to Stockholm for me. I'll be there in about thirty minutes, so anything in an hour is good. I'll pull priority strings if I need to."

"Let me get back to you on that," she said. "I'll call you in a few minutes."

Ten minutes later, he had a ticket waiting for him at the airport police. Thirty minutes later, the Heathrow colleagues gave him a hurried security check, then let him bypass the crowds.

An hour later, he was in the air above the North Sea, heading east.

Once in Stockholm, he rushed through the arrivals checks and was just getting out his cell phone again when he spotted Sven at the front of the waiting crowd.

His lover caught him in a tight embrace, which he readily returned.

"You look terrible," he said quietly, touching his hand to Sven's face.

"I can imagine." Sven sighed, then pulled away reluctantly. "Come on, let's get going. Victoria's security has taken over for now, but I promised them I'd be there to relieve them for the night shift."

"Whatever I can do, just tell me," Michael said. "I'm here to help."

They stopped at the elevator, and Sven looked at him tiredly. "Thank you, Mike. I'm glad you're here."

"Anytime." The doors opened and they stepped inside. "Give me the car keys, I'll drive. You really look like you could use some rest."

Sven dug the keys out of his pocket, then hesitated. "You don't know where the hospital is," he said.

"You've got GPS, and even if I didn't understand enough Swedish for that by now, it shows me pictures." Michael took the keys, and the elevator doors opened before them to let them out into the airport's underground parking garage. "Let me take care of this, and you can take a nap until we're there."

By the time they got out of the garage, Sven was already fast asleep. Michael guessed that he'd been up for most of last night if they had taken Prince Daniel in yesterday. Victoria would have stayed with him, and her brother in turn would have stayed at her side. Which meant that William was there too by now; Michael hadn't asked, and he didn't have the heart to wake Sven for that right now. But it was only logical, and there would be enough Säpo officers around to keep them all safe.

The hospital was not too far from the airport, and Michael pulled into the parking lot sooner than he wanted to. But at least Sven had gotten twenty minutes of sleep - better than nothing, and it would keep him going for a few more hours. By then, Michael would just have to find someplace to make him lie down.

They found the royals in a small waiting room up on the ICU level. Two officers Michael recognised from the winter holiday were guarding the corridor and presumably turning everyone away who wasn't an authorized visitor to an ICU patient. Sven exchanged a few words with one of them, then turned to Michael.

"No news yet," he said. "An update from the doctors is expected in about an hour."

"Then we wait." Michael came to Sven's side, and they leaned against the wall, shoulders brushing.

Michael could see the Crown Princess on a chair, William by her side. On the opposite row of chairs sat her two siblings, looking as though they hadn't slept in days.

Poor kids, he thought, even though they weren't all that much younger than him. All that pressure they normally were under, and now this on top of everything else. He hadn't had time to find out what was wrong with Prince Daniel, but he knew enough about his medical history to be concerned.

The doctor eventually came and brought an update; Carl Philip took charge of that talk, then led his sisters and William outside into a quiet back courtyard for some fresh air. Together with one of the other security officers, Sven and Michael followed along. They did not expect any trouble at this point and they kept a respectful distance, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

"What's the situation?" Michal asked quietly.

"He's stable, and it's an infection they can counter with antibiotics. The kidney stone is the real problem, but they say they can fix that too."

Michael watched the young royals for a moment, then turned towards Sven. "But they're keeping him in ICU?"

"For now, but that's partly for the privacy." Sven yawned and shook his head. "It's a good thing, too - we've spotted a few paparazzi earlier. I don't think they'd try to sneak into the hospital, but you never know. They won't make it up to ICU without getting themselves run over by a bus first, though."

Victoria was now crying in William's arms, and Michael straightened with relief when he saw a determined-looking young woman arrive, exchange some words with the guards and then head for Madeleine. But only the younger princess went with her; the other three came back into the waiting area but refused to leave even when they were offered an exam room just around the corner for rest and privacy

When night fell, there still were no further news of Prince Daniel. Victoria was asleep now in one of the chairs, William's coat tucked around her, Carl Philip's serving as a pillow. The two princes stood in the corner, talking quietly.

"I hate seeing them like this," Sven said. Together with Michael he had taken corridor duty for the next hours, making sure that nobody but medical personnel went past. "They hurt, and I can't stay objective." He rubbed his eyes. "This isn't supposed to happen."

"It's only natural for people like us," Michael said quietly. "We spend more time with them than with anyone else in our lives. It would be strange if this didn't touch us." He glanced at the princes, who seemed too lost in talk for now to notice much of what was going on around them, then drew Sven into a brief embrace.

Sven leaned into him, then drew back after a few moments. "They need to sleep," he said.

"So do you. Did you get any rest last night?"

"A few hours. Someone should be coming soon to relieve us, I'll manage until then."

"You better had." Michael rubbed a hand across his face, then shook his head in an attempt to wake himself a little more. It was well past midnight, and if he was feeling tired, it had to be a lot worse for everyone else. "Stay here, I'll see if I can find something hot to drink."

He brought back a pot of tea a few minutes later, with enough sugar in it that the spoon had stood upright. Hot and sweet, and while it wouldn't help with keeping them alert, it also wouldn't stop Sven or the princes from sleeping as soon as they could be convinced to do so.

Victoria woke again a little later, and her brother managed to talk her into accepting the cot in the nurses' break room. Her security officer went with her, leaving Sven and Michael to hold the fort.

Eventually the two princes sat down too, looking ready to drop. It didn't take long for them to fall asleep, Carl Philip's head pillowed on William's shoulder.

"They really don't deserve this," Sven whispered.

Michael reached for his hand. "Nobody does," he said.

***

Two days later, Helen and Paul waited at the airport when Michael returned, a practically somnambulant Prince William in tow.

"Has anything happened?" he asked as they manoeuvred the prince towards the car.

Helen grimaced. "That's an understatement," she said under her breath, then glanced back at the prince. "I'll tell you in the car. And be careful. I don't think the paps know he's here, but we aren't sure."

That didn't sound good. Michael was sure he'd have heard of anything dramatic, but a smaller scandal... that would have been easy to miss for a few hours.

Once they got William into the car, Helen slipped into the passenger seat, leaving Michael to drive. Paul was in a second car behind them, one of their basic setups in case someone insisted on being too curious.

"So what happened?" Michael asked once the glass pane to the rear seats was closed and the prince couldn't overhear them.

"The reason for the Sweden trips came out."

"Oh damn," Michael groaned. "Of course that had to happen now. Couldn't they at least have waited until tomorrow?"

Helen fastened her seatbelt, then rifled through a stack of papers. "Clarence House received orders today to send the prince to the Queen as soon as he turns up. Here's his copy of it," she waved a white envelope and put it down on the dashboard, "and we've already informed Buckingham Palace that he is on the way back."

Michael sighed as he started car. "Great. He's practically a zombie, couldn't you have given him a few hours' break?"

"No way. Those orders came directly from the Queen, I'm not going to be creative when it comes to interpreting those." Helen shoved the papers back into the briefcase and snapped the locks closed. "For his sake, I hope he's got a good explanation about how he got Princess Victoria pregnant."

"The usual way, probably," Michael said before the details of that caught up with his tired brain. "Hang on, what?"

Bending down, Helen stuffed the briefcase into the foot well and came up with a newspaper. The _Telegraph_, Michael noted with a sinking feeling. That one was harder to dismiss than the _Mirror_ or the _Sun_.

"Royal love-child on the way," it titled. Underneath it was a picture of William hugging a very obviously pregnant Princess Victoria at the hospital.

"Bloody hell," he muttered. None of them had noticed that photographer.

Helen put the paper down. "They've looked at all his Swedish holiday trips this year," she said. "And they've counted back and found that he's been missing for a few days in November that would have just been at the right time to produce an August baby."

"He was on the Isle of Man," Michael said. Brooding over Carl Philip having to go back to Stockholm, but he didn't add that bit. "I can't believe the Queen thinks he'd really be that stupid. Or Victoria, for that matter."

"If you believe the _Sun_, then it's a cunning plot to annex Sweden to the UK," Helen said. "Though I'm not sure how exactly that's supposed to play out. So who is he having an affair with? It's pretty obvious that something must have been going on. He wouldn't have gone AWOL five times since November over a sick polo pony."

"If he really likes the pony... Look, I know what this is, but we're not discussing this. You'd not say it if it were Beatrice or Eugenie, either."

Helen stared at him in horror. "Don't tell me he and Madeleine... That poor girl."

Michael scowled at her, both for the silly idea and for implying that his prince would have been a bad catch for the Swedish princess. Ah, how much easier this all could have been if it had been her. Then they could just have gotten rid of her fiancé in a glacier crevasse in northern Sweden and everybody else would have had a happily ever after.

"No, it's not Madeleine either." Traffic was getting stronger as they came into London proper, and Michael was grateful for every second it delayed them. "I'd better give him his marching orders."

"Let him have a few minutes to figure out his defence," Helen agreed and passed him the envelope.

Michael waited until the next traffic light, then lowered the glass pane. "Orders from her Majesty the Queen for you, Sir," he said with a sympathetic smile.

His prince took the envelope, a concerned frown on his face that deepened as he read the missive. "We'll go to Buckingham Palace," he said, his voice so very weary.

"As you wish, Sir." Michael exchanged another look with Helen. The rest of the drive was made in silence.

Michael might have imagined it, but the Buckingham guards looked even more smug than usual when they arrived. Snotty bastards, Michael thought, then sighed inwardly when he spotted Stuart. That meant the Prince of Wales was here too, not a constellation that boded well at all.

"I've got to make a phone call," he said. "I'll be back in a bit."

He found a corner where he wouldn't be overheard, then called Sven and passed on the news.

The first reaction he got was a string of heartfelt curses in Swedish.

"You didn't know yet, I take it," Michael said once Sven had stopped muttering.

"No, but I'm sure the King and Queen will find out soon, if they haven't already. Mike, thank you for warning me. I'll go and make sure Carl Philip has a look at the headlines immediately."

"I'll let you know what they decide here once someone tells me. Maybe they'll just go for denial, as usual."

"Certainly better than the alternative. I'd hate to see Carl Philip beheaded for laying hands on the British heir to the throne."

"That would be a pity," Michael agreed. "It's a pretty head. Call me once you know?"

"I'll do that. And I'll speak to you in the evening."

***

Michael couldn't reach Sven in the evening, but he didn't worry about that. Over in Stockholm, the situation was probably just as chaotic as it was here. The inner circle of the staff had been told about Prince William's relationship with Carl Philip, and everybody was still baffled by the news.

"I can't believe none of you guessed," Michael said as he sat together with his colleagues in the guard room. With four people it was quite crowded, but they knew each other well enough by now not to mind the occasional brush of arms or knees.

Stuart laughed at that. "We were far too occupied looking at you and your own Swede. Was that part of the decoy?"

"You certainly are distracting," Helen said, nursing her tea. She was on desk duty for the night shift and still looked a bit wide-eyed at the whole idea. "Is it the new trend to get a gay relationship in Sweden? I'd better go look for a girlfriend in that case."

The men were quiet for a moment as they contemplated the mental pictures that brought up, until she kicked Paul's shin hard enough to make him yelp.

"No fantasizing there. Especially you, Mike, you're not supposed to even think about it. Or I'll tell Sven the next time I see him."

"He'll just introduce you to Britta, she thinks you are really cute."

Helen cocked her head. "Which one was she?"

"Princess Madeleine's. The blond one who kept sneaking Sven and me cookies whenever she saw us together. If I didn't know better I'd say she was trying to train us."

Paul looked at him, eyebrows raised, then turned to Stuart. "Please tell me I'm not the only guy here who prefers women," he said.

Stuart pretended to look thoughtful. "Well, Prince Carl Philip is a nice catch..."

"Stuart!"

"Don't worry Paul, we'll not think any worse of you if you insist to date the opposite gender," Helen said reassuringly, patting his knee. "But seriously, this is going to get interesting as soon as the press catches hold of it."

"So far they don't know. The press office thinks they'll buy the denial and the idea that the prince is just a good friend of the crown princess." Michael leaned back in his chair and stretched out his legs as far as he could without knocking into Paul's. "And they really are friends, so it's not even a lie."

"Yes, it's just omitting a few details," Stuart said. "Like the fact that he's gone gay and snatched himself a pretty Scandinavian prince second in line to another throne right now. Helen is right, once the public finds out, there's no telling how this will go."

Paul picked a biscuit from the tin on the little table. "I tell you what's going to happen. They'll be shocked for a day. Then they'll figure out that unless William finds a way to get a man pregnant, Harry is his heir."

They thought about that.

"Holy shit," Stuart eventually said. "We'd better make sure William talks to some scientists soon."

"King Henry IX," Helen mused. "How can anyone think that's a good idea?" She turned to Michael. "You better make sure nothing happens to William and he lives to be a hundred and twenty. Get Sven to help. How are they handling this, anyway?"

Michael shrugged. "I tried to call him earlier, but he isn't picking up. They're probably just as busy as we are."

"At least they're not heading for a succession crisis," Stuart said. "Because Harry... really. That can't end well."

"Where is he, anyway?" Helen asked.

"Harry? At Kensington Palace, I turned him over to the night shift there an hour ago." Paul sighed. "And it's one of the new guys on duty, so you can imagine what's going to happen."

"Of course. He'll sneak out and do god-knows-what, and Stuart and I will collect him in Birmingham tomorrow morning and pretend we all are a bunch of plastered students. You did at least warn the new guy, right?"

"It's not like they've got a chance. If you want to keep Harry in check you need to be an expert."

"And quick on your feet." Michael barely suppressed a yawn. It had been a long day, and the chair was a lot more comfortable than usual.

Paul gave a mocking laugh. "You want to make sure Harry doesn't get into trouble, you need to put him on a leash. Compared to him, William is an angel, and look what he got up to. With that sort of record, Harry probably has a harem of Icelandic pole dancers stashed away somewhere."

"How did he take the news, anyway?" Michael asked. "I saw William head for his apartment earlier."

"He looked absolutely poleaxed when he came out," Paul said. "He's always counted on William to make sure he never needs to step up, and now he can't even be sure William will be King at all. Suddenly being required to act like an adult must have come as a shock."

"Better keep a close watch on him so he doesn't do anything stupid." Helen paused. "More stupid than usual, that is. Even if he pretends to go gay, he won't get out of this now."

"King Harry," Paul muttered. "God help us if that ever comes around."

***

They didn't pick Harry up in Birmingham the next day. He got as far as Newcastle this time.

Michael still had no luck when it came to reaching Sven, and there were no incoming calls he had missed either. The first day it had been nothing to worry about, the second day it had been strange, and by the third day he was almost ready to go through official channels to check.

Official communication with the Säkerhetspolisen - and there suddenly was a lot of it, as if they had only now noticed that their prince tended to make for England whenever the opportunity presented itself - was handled by a woman Michael hadn't met before. He tried to ask, in a roundabout way, but only found out that she had been transferred to the position of Chief Security Officer to His Highness Prince Carl Philip Duke of Värmland temporarily. She also really liked to use the prince's full title, preferably in conjuncture with her own job description.

Windbag, Michael decided thirty seconds into their first communication. It was almost a pity that His Highness Prince Carl Philip Duke of Värmland had no reason anymore to vanish on his security handlers. Although, perhaps he'd stage another escape attempt just to flee from this insane woman.

"Still no news?" Helen asked as she buttoned up her jacket to get ready for William's evening trips. She had been put on princely assistance duty until the tabloids calmed down again, and had witnessed his attempts to catch hold of Sven this morning.

Michael put the phone down. "No, and he isn't calling back either. And now there's this new officer in charge of Carl Philip all of a sudden."

"The Viking witch? I talked to her earlier. Do you have any idea why we've got to deal with her all of a sudden?"

"I don't know," he said, sighing. "I'm starting to worry. This isn't right, something must have happened."

Helen brushed her hands down the front of her jacket and checked herself in the mirror. "Have you tried asking someone else?"

"That's just it; I called Britta but she doesn't know anything either. All she could tell me was that they've replaced him with the witch for now, but nobody knows why." He ran a hand through his hair, then muttered a curse and tried to get it back into some semblance of order again.

Helen shot him a worried look. "Do you think something happened to him? Surely someone would have said something in that case."

They were interrupted by William coming downstairs to join them, looking as though he hadn't slept much that night either. If that was turning into a habit, Michael thought as they accompanied him outside to the car, then they'd have to start slipping him sleeping pills.

***

By the end of the week, Michael was becoming frantic. There still was no word from Sven, the witch seemed to be settling into a more permanent position, and nobody over at Säpo had heard anything. Britta, in an amicable chat with Helen - and that mere concept worried Michael more than he cared to admit - passed on a rumour that Sven had been transferred south to Göteborg, but that didn't make any sense as far as the lack of contact was concerned. Göteborg, Michael was reliably informed, had phone lines.

He couldn't imagine any reason why Sven would deliberately drop off the face of the earth like that without telling him first. They had been in the habit of a few calls a week, work-related and private. That his lover would just stop that, and leave his position as Carl Philip's guard on top of it...

The only explanation that made even a remote amount of sense was that Sven had broken up with him, in a very thorough fashion. Well, that and the possibility that he had been kidnapped by someone else's secret service for state secrets, but in a rational minute Michael was willing to admit that it was improbable.

He'd been dumped. Thoroughly, too.

Not even a text message or anything, just complete communication silence.

Fine. If that was what Sven wanted, then so be it. He'd be damned if he kept chasing after the man; there were plenty of messages on his voicemail and in his mailbox, so it wasn't as if Sven could pretend Michael hadn't been trying to reach him. Now it was his turn.

It still didn't feel entirely right. Why not leave at least a last message? Why, even more importantly, leave the side of the prince? Michael couldn't remember doing anything that warranted such thorough avoidance.

He was despondent enough that week to even let himself be talked into Harry duty a few times. The first two days went well, then there was an incident with a feather boa and a chicken that landed the prince on page three of the _Mirror_ and page four of the _Sun_. Harry, when asked, serenely commented that he thought it deserved at least a colour photo.

There were some extra shifts to be pulled, too; William was still on a doubled guard, and they tried to cover as much of that with the regular Clarence House officers rather than ask for reinforcements. Mutual sentiment was that they'd work themselves into the ground before they let the Buckingham Palace crowd anywhere near their princes. They didn't have the training for it, anyway; protecting the Queen in no way prepared anyone for chasing after a prince set on heading off to Sweden to get laid, or another prince set on heading off to the next pub to get drunk and dance on tables. Even the Prince of Wales would give them a run for their money, and all he did these days was talk to shrubberies.

In the evenings, Michael didn't do much more than come through the door and fall into bed; sometimes he did not even bother with going home and slept in the ready room until Helen chased him out and sent him off to get fresh clothes.

But even spending all his waking hours on the job didn't stop him, every night after turning off the light, from trying just one last phone call.

***

The Swedish King and Queen's visit was announced on far shorter notice than usual for a state visit. Then again, it didn't quite qualify as such, but casual trips by monarchs into other realms happened rarely enough that they usually got treated the same way.

They didn't often have the occasion of troubleshooting the sudden revelation of gay heirs to thrones. At least, not that Michael was aware of.

It was a scramble to get everything organised on the security front. Clarence House usually was only marginally involved when it came to state visits - Buckingham Palace handled those, even for the Prince of Wales - but this time, they were in the centre of attention. And what had run so smoothly over the past months with Michael and Sven handling the communications was now a bumpy road with the Chief Security Officer to His Highness Prince Carl Philip Duke of Värmland on the other end of the line.

Helen was already trying to bribe Britta into an assassination attempt on the witch. From what Michael heard, Britta was not entirely disinclined.

They managed to get everything set up in time; the Säpo staff arrived the evening before to help with the final details, and Michael did his best to work with them without thinking too much. It helped that all the women were slipping him sweets whenever possible and kept on giving him commiserating looks. There was a certain amount of satisfaction to know that if Sven dared to show his face, he would face a group of angry female Säpo officers with plenty of hand-to-hand experience.

The visit itself started out fairly well. They got the Swedes from the airport without trouble and to St. James Palace for the formal part of the visit, even though the princes were so awkward with each other that Michael wondered how often each of them had been told off for what they were doing to make them look so much like kicked puppies.

As far as the waiting security officers could tell, everything was still fine when the group of royals came out and walked over to Clarence House. The atmosphere felt a lot more relaxed already, and once or twice the Queen was even smiling towards the young men. Perhaps someone had assured her that the Swedes would donate a baby for William to adopt so Harry could be kept off the throne. King Carl XVI Gustaf had met the younger prince; surely he understood the necessity.

It was as if thinking of Harry jinxed the afternoon. The royals had just settled in the salon of Clarence House for high tea when the prince came up the stairs to the entrance, Paul in tow.

"Is Wills here?" Harry asked once he was inside.

"They are in the salon, Sir," Stuart answered. "Sir, is there anything... you look a little distraught."

But Harry already was on his way through, his steps hurried.

"What's he done this time?" Stuart asked, turning to Paul.

With a deep sigh, Paul let himself fall into the nearest available chair. "He's gotten himself banned from the succession," he said.

Three pairs of eyes stared at him.

"How?" Michael finally managed.

Paul had his face buried in his hands. "He's managed to get a baby on a fundamentalist Catholic lap dancer."

Three more pairs of legs abruptly gave out.

"That's..." Helen trailed off, gesturing vaguely. "Big, even for him."

"Well, you can't say he does anything by halves." Stuart said, looking up sharply with the rest of them when the doors to the salon opened and both William and Harry came out. They watched as the princes hurried upstairs, presumably towards the laundry closet.

"Think he told them?" Paul asked.

"I didn't hear any flying pottery, so probably not. But-" Michael was interrupted when Carl Philip came out too. "Upstairs," he said to the prince. "Laundry closet, I think you know the way."

The prince blinked at them, then went up, came back again after a minute, went into the salon, then came out with his parents and led them upstairs. If he had any idea of what Harry had gotten himself into, he was giving an impressive display of unconcerned amusement.

The next act of this little drama unfolded when William and Harry came back down, right after a bit of muffled shouting. So William presumably knew, Michael thought as they watched the princes go back into the salon to the Queen and the Prince of Wales.

The plot thickened when Prince Charles suddenly came storming out, slamming the door in his wake and rushing up to his apartments. Another door slammed.

"I guess the cat is out of the bag," Helen said.

Next were the princes, coming out again and shutting the door behind themselves more quietly before racing upstairs again. William stopped mid-level, then turned to come back down and towards the security desk. They snapped upright and to attention.

"We'll need one of you to collect a young woman at University College Hospital up in Euston Road," he said. "Is that possible?"

"Of course, Sir," Stuart assured him. "We'll take care of it. When should she be here?"

The prince glanced at the closed salon doors, then upstairs in the direction Harry had disappeared in. "Towards evening would probably be best."

"I'll get her," Helen said. "My sister is pregnant right now, I know how to handle this."

The prince gave her a confused look, and Paul surreptitiously kicked her ankle.

"Ah... thank you. Did you see where Prince Carl Philip went?"

They all pointed upstairs.

"Thank you."

After a little while the Swedish trio came down again - hopefully their little tour hadn't included the laundry closet, memorable though it certainly was in the evolution of their son's love life. Prince William was nowhere to be seen; he'd either missed them, or was still with Harry.

They went into the salon again, back to the Queen. Thirty seconds later Carl Philip poked his head through the door.

"Upstairs," Stuart said, not bothering to get up anymore.

The prince went up.

"This is getting confusing," Paul said. "I wonder if that's how old Will got the ideas for his comedies."

"Just wait, next we'll get one of the princes coming down disguised as a girl."

They considered the possibility.

"William would not work, but Harry could have the waist for it," Helen said. "I'm not sure about Carl Philip."

"You'll need to put him in high heels, he's not quite tall enough for a dress otherwise," Michael advised. "But he's got great legs. Wait until you see him in jeans."

They fell silent when they heard footsteps again on the stairs. William and Carl Philip this time, looking decidedly rumpled and straightening their clothes as they came down.

Helen and Stuart started demonstratively patting their hair. The princes stared at them, then William seemed to catch on. He reached up to get Carl Philip's hair back into some semblance of order, then shot them a questioning look.

Stuart gave them a thumbs-up.

Back inside the salon the princes went. The guard officers waited with anticipation for a few minutes, then resigned themselves to the fact that the entertainment was over.

"Should we go upstairs and see if someone strangled Harry and shoved him into a closet?" Helen asked.

"Nah, if they want to execute him, they'll do it in the Tower," Paul said. "It's better for the tourism industry that way."

***

When Michael came back to his apartment that night, he absently noticed that he'd forgotten to turn off the light in the morning. More attention, smaller energy bill, he told himself as he put his bag down.

Then he noticed that there was a coat on the rack that didn't belong to him.

Everything inside him snapped to attention. "Hello?" he called, keeping the entrance door open behind himself, just in case. Burglars, in his experience, didn't take off their jackets and hung them tidily, but you could never be sure.

"Mike?"

A familiar figure came out of the kitchen. A figure he hadn't thought he would see again.

Furious, he slammed the door shut and stalked towards Sven. "You bastard," he hissed. "How dare you come here!"

Sven raised his hands. "Mike..."

"Shut up! And get out." Michael grabbed Sven's coat from the rack, then threw it at him. "I don't want you here."

"Mike, whatever is wrong..."

"What is wrong?" Michael asked incredulously. "What is wrong? You actually need to ask?" He yanked the door open again. "Get out. Now."

Sven dropped the coat, not moving a step. "Tell me what I did, Mike," he said. "Why are you that angry?"

"Why I'm angry? You fucking bastard, first you dump me, and then you dare to stand here and just ask why I'm angry?"

"Dump you? I never dumped you!"

"You vanish completely, you don't return any calls or emails, you even change your job! What else do you call that?" Michael could feel himself shaking, the adrenaline carrying him on. "I don't want to see you again."

"Mike, I can explain this..."

"And will you stop talking to me like you're talking me out of a crime?" Mike opened the door further, then stepped aside to let him pass. "Out. Now."

Sven shook his head. "Only once you've listened to me."

"You can give me a call," Michael said, folding his arms in front of his chest. "Oh no, wait, you don't seem to know how to do that anymore."

"I wasn't allowed to call anyone-"

"Is that your excuse? You weren't allowed? You're a security officer, you've got access to enough equipment that a lack of permission shouldn't have stopped you."

"I couldn't-"

"You bring secure phones from Sweden for your prince, but you can't be bothered to get one when it's your own relationship that's in question?" Michael cocked his head at the door. "Get out!"

"No." Sven took a step towards him, and it was too much for Michael's fraying self-restraint.

He slammed the door shut and launched himself forwards, at the other man. Grabbed his shirt, felt hands on his arm. The first blow landed, the second was only glancing because Sven turned away at the last moment so Michael hit his shoulder, not his face. Sven still had his arm and shoved, and Michael went down hard. He got a knee around Sven's leg, tripped him, barely managed to roll away.

Sven still didn't let go, so Michael kicked, hard, heard a sharp exhale and felt the grip loosen. He scrambled to get to his feet again but Sven grabbed his leg and kept him down. An instant later he had a knee digging into the small of his back, and before he could twist himself around his arm was caught behind his back.

"Now will you listen?" he heard Sven's voice right at his ear.

He let himself go limp. Then he tried to shove him off. A brief struggle and the grip on his arm tightened.

"Stop that. Mike, stop!"

"Get off," he hissed.

"Is this all because I didn't call you?" Sven's weight on him shifted, but not enough to let him get up. "The Säpo pulled me into a training course, you idiot. The radio silence was part of that, and if you'd just waited then I could have told you today."

Underneath him, Michael attempted another struggle, but didn't get anywhere, not with an expert pinning him down.

"They're moving me from immediate security to liaison," Sven continued. His voice sounded a little odd. "And I'll tell you later what that means because I don't think you're listening right now."

Michael lay still, his breath coming in harsh pants. Sven's hold on him eased, just a little, and he waited another moment before he seized that opportunity and threw himself to the side.

Almost. He almost got away. Then he was on his back, his arms pinned to the floor above his head, Sven's body on top of his, keeping him down.

"Are you done with being stupid?" Sven asked him, his jaw red where Michael had hit him.

Michael glared up at him. "Bastard," he whispered. He tensed his muscles, not with any real plan behind it, and was immediately shoved down again. Then Sven's mouth was on his own, hot and demanding, and he should have turned away but couldn't.

He gave in, adrenaline buzzing in his veins, and he wished he had his hands free so he could hold on but Sven didn't release him and all he could do was arch and buck to get more contact.

One leg came free and he didn't use it for leverage but wrapped it around Sven's thigh, drawing him in more tightly, bodies flush against each other. Head tilted back, he offered his throat as much in surrender as in demand, and groaned when he felt the suckling heat of Sven's mouth.

"Mike." His wrists were released at a sudden, and Sven drew back. He tried to follow, but a hand on his shoulder kept him down. "Still want me to leave?"

In place of an answer, he reached up and dragged Sven down again into another searing kiss.

"Just making sure," Sven murmured against his lips, blue eyes dark with arousal. "Come on, bed. You won't like me in the morning if I leave you with carpet burn."

He let himself be manhandled upright and dragged into the bedroom, each step difficult because they couldn't stop touching, clothes dropping as they went. They tumbled down onto the mattress together and Michael reached out, desperate for the solidity of Sven's skin against his own. Sven's mouth again was hot on the curve of his throat, a biting, licking touch that Michael couldn't get enough of.

He felt Sven move away, heard the scrape of the bedside drawer. Then his lover's weight was back on top of him and he let himself be pressed down into the blankets, glorying in the sheer heat.

Later, on his back in bed, holding on tight as Sven moved inside him, he let the last remnants of anger in his veins be washed away by a different kind of burning.

***

"I can't believe I let you do this to me," Michael muttered next morning after a final look at his neck in the mirror.

Sven came to stand behind him. "You can say I tried to strangle you," he offered, his arms coming around Michael's hips and drawing him back. "It explains the bruises."

"Stop that, there's no time. At least my uniform has a high collar, it should take care of most of this." He turned around and gave Sven a glare. "Next time you abscond, I'm getting on top. I've got scrapes all over."

Sven very pointedly kissed the corner of his eye, right where he himself had a spectacular bruise blooming. "If that's what you want."

"Absolutely. Come here, let's put some concealer on you so your prince doesn't think I'm abusing you."

"Wherever would he get that idea," Sven muttered, but obligingly held still as Michael covered up the worst of the black eye. "Why on Earth do you have make-up anyway?"

"A leftover from the last round of hand-to-hand lessons," he said. "Helen kept going for my face, and I can't go on duty looking like I ran into a lamp post." A few more wipes, then he surveyed his handiwork. "There you go, as good as new. Just remember not to touch your temple."

"Trust me, that is the last thing on my mind right now."

Michael waited until they were in the car before he made himself ask the question that had been on his mind all morning.

"So what exactly have you been doing?" He kept his eyes on the road, with more diligence than strictly necessary.

"They're promoting me," Sven said. "Sideways, more or less, but that doesn't matter right now."

"Then what matters?" Michael asked.

"That I'm no longer a security officer in the direct sense. They're moving me into a liaison position. It's not that different from what I've been doing for the last year anyway, but that was always in an unofficial capacity."

A traffic light turned red just before them, and Michael braked. "And you couldn't simply have said so."

Sven hesitated for a moment before answering. "There was a mix-up in communications, I only found out about it the morning I had to leave for that training course," he said. "It's about getting higher security clearance, and a few other things I'm not exactly allowed to talk about."

"Then don't, but... damn it, Sven. You practically dropped off the face of the earth, what did you think this would look like?"

A hand came to rest on his own on the gear lever. "I'm sorry."

"You'd better be," Michael grumbled. "So what is your new position about? If you aren't in charge of Carl Philip's security anymore, that's the witch's job now. That means you no longer accompany him, right?"

It would cut into their time together. Just now, when the princes were finally more open and there would be more visits - it simply wasn't fair.

They would have to manage with weekends and holidays. And perhaps William would increase his trips to Sweden; if Sven could no longer come to the United Kingdom, then they'd just have to work it the other way around.

"I'll still be Carl Philip's security detail, but I'll also do mediation work between Säpo and your Royalty Protection Department," Sven said. "A few people further up the command chain did the maths on what it means that our princes are having a relationship. They want someone who's going to run interference in an official manner."

"And that's you."

Sven nodded. "They'll find someone new as the immediate security officer for Carl Philip whenever it's necessary to have someone on him around the clock. If they don't hand him over completely to you, that is. He hasn't really needed security for years now; I was just there because it would have looked odd if we'd left him completely unattended."

"Poor guy, I bet he felt neglected," Michael said. "So let me get this straight, you're the official contact person now?"

"Yes, between the RPD and Säpo. It's all been arranged already." Sven's hand tightened on his, then withdrew. "I'll still be going back and forth between Sweden and the UK, and I'll make all the arrangements. I'll just do it officially now and spend more time on that and less as a security officer in the field." He gave Michael an earnest look. "So take care of my prince, you hear?"

Michael held his gaze. "You know I will," he said, then had to look forward again when the traffic began to move.

"I'm sorry I couldn't tell you." Sven's voice was quiet, and when Michael glanced over he was staring out the side window. "If I had known it would look like that to you, I'd have told you somehow."

Michael let out a deep breath, carefully considering his answer. They still were not quite back on safe ground with this, and the last thing he wanted to do was risk more damage with a careless reply.

"Promise that the next time something like that happens, you'll make sure someone knows," he said. "Because that was the worst. Nobody had any idea what had happened to you, and in our job..."

From the corner of his eye he saw Sven turn towards him again. "I promise, Mike. I'll never do that to you again, you have my word." Sven's hand touched his arm, just above the elbow, a small point of contact but so very reassuring. "I love you, Mike. Whatever you need, I'll do it."

Michael gave him a smile that was a lot shakier than he wanted. "Just don't disappear again, that's all I ask," he said, wishing they weren't in the car right now and he could give Sven all the attention he deserved. "Because I love you too, and it bloody hurt when you did that."

***

Stuart did a double take when the two of them came into Clarence House thirty minutes later.

"What happened to you?" he asked Michael.

Michael's hand went up to his collar. "You should see the other guy," he said.

Stuart frowned, then glanced at Sven, his gaze lingering on the black eye. "I think I'm looking at him," he said. "What on earth did you do?"

Michael winced. "God, what haven't we done," he muttered, then went off to check his neck in the nearest mirror again. He hadn't thought the love bites were quite that obvious.

The next to spot him was Helen, who blinked at the sight of the two of them, then said, "I thought you liked each other?"

"We do," Sven told her.

"Now," Michael added, then changed the subject before she could ask anything else.

***

When Prince Harry's wedding came a few weeks later, they had the first opportunity to test the new security arrangements. Not that there was all that much to test - the biggest change was that there was a second Swedish officer around now to get some on-the-job training with the Royalty Protection Department, and that the two groups integrated more tightly. It only made sense, given that the princes spent most of their time together anyway.

"He'll have to settle down now," Paul said as they watched Harry and his wife get into the horse-drawn carriage that would take them to the party part of the wedding. "Life is going to be boring."

"I'm sure he'll give you a few more opportunities to stop his insanities," Michael assured him, keeping an eye on his own prince. It was a small ceremony, so there wasn't much to be concerned about, but one could never be absolutely sure.

At his side Nils, the new Swedish officer, was practically shivering with excitement. Michael didn't think the young man had even dared blink for the duration of the ceremony for fear of losing sight of Carl Philip. As if anything was going to happen to a random Swedish prince. Even Sven had admitted that the only time the Säpo was even remotely worried about Carl Philip's security was when he got propped onto a little blue pedestal in front of the palace every five years for his birthday celebration. Michael thought the whole idea a bit odd, but he wasn't going to argue with foreign customs.

While the dust was settling in the wake of the wedding, the princes made off for Scotland. Nils didn't get to go along for that once it was discovered he had an allergy to horse hair, which rendered him eminently unsuitable for a holiday on horseback. Sven graciously agreed to cover for him, and off they went.

They kept their distance to the princes, getting only close enough to keep them in their line of sight. As long as they stayed in the heathlands, they'd be able to spot any danger miles before it got anywhere near the princes.

The trip was as close as they'd ever gotten to a real holiday together since the trip to northern Sweden. There was not much to do all day save follow the princes, who rode a good hundred yards ahead of them, far enough for private conversations on both sides.

It would have been perfect if it hadn't been for Michael's horse to hate him at first sight. The mare had bitten him when he had offered her an apple, and their relationship had gone downhill from there. Getting on her back every morning was an experience in itself, with flattened ears and angry snorts from all parties involved.

"A French breed," he said to Sven on their third day, when the mare had just done her best to toss him into the nearest ditch. "Figures."

They had to pitch their tent fairly close to that of the princes at night, which didn't seem much of a problem until well past nightfall on the first evening. The next morning, they had a fairly good idea about who did what to whom over there.

"You owe me ten kronor, by the way," Sven told him over breakfast. "Remember our bet?"

It didn't help that Michael couldn't shake off the awareness of how close the princes were at night. Under any other circumstances he would have relished the chance to spend a whole month with his lover, with only wilderness and a Viking and a Windsor in the vicinity. But knowing just how well sound carried here was proving to be a major obstacle.

"Stop that," he hissed the second night, when Sven's hand found his chest and tried to slip lower. "Someone'll hear."

His lover poked him hard enough to make him yelp, then rolled closer, sleeping bags rustling. "Don't be an idiot. The horses won't care, the squirrels won't either, and the princes have got better things to do than pay attention to us."

As if on cue, a pleased moan could be heard in the distance. Michael buried his face in his hands.

"See?" Sven whispered. "Nobody is listening."

Before Michael could protest any further, Sven was kissing him and doing highly interesting things with his hand. Michael muttered a curse, but stopped objecting.

Silent sex, he discovered, was quite a turn-on.

***

A few days before the end of the Scotland trip, they were riding across a stretch of heathland with a few brooks running through it. Plenty of encouragement for Michael's horse to attempt to lose her rider once again - he had figured out by now that if the terrain looked boring, he was safe, but once there was an interesting place for the mare to toss him into, something in her sadistic equine brain made her do her darndest to get him off her back. So far she'd found two ponds, a muddy puddle, and a patch of thistles.

Sven, mounted on his own far too well-behaved horse, hadn't even pretended not to be amused. Anglo-Swedish relations had been at a bit of a strain after that, but they patched it up again quickly by Sven helping Michael to patch up after the thistle incident.

Michael was just working on convincing his mare that no, she didn't want to throw him into that puddle, when Sven reined in his horse.

"Wait for a bit," he said, nodding his head at the princes riding ahead of them.

Once he was in no imminent danger of becoming airborne, Michael looked. At first it all seemed normal, until he saw William bring his horse to a halt. The prince was gesturing sharply, his voice loud enough to carry. Carl Philip, on the other hand, sat quietly and not even his horse was moving a muscle.

They weren't supposed to hear this, Michael knew, and a glance at Sven told him that his lover shared that thought. But they couldn't turn around and just leave them alone.

"What did you think of that village yesterday?" he asked, snatching the first bit of small talk that crossed his mind. Anything to focus on so he wouldn't be listening to William and Carl Philip.

"Not much, only that they must have horrible TV reception," Sven said, playing along. "Mistake Carl Philip for Orlando Bloom? Someone needs to take a better look."

"Well, there are some similarities." Michael clicked his tongue to remind the horse that yes, he was still there and that he was watching her. "You've seen the movies, right?"

They moved on to discussing Pirates of the Caribbean, all the time keeping an eye on the princes. Whatever turn the argument had taken, it looked as though only William was truly fighting.

Finally, after endless minutes, William spurred his horse into motion again and Carl Philip followed suit. They stayed next to each other, matching each other's pace.

"Doesn't look too bad," Sven said quietly. "But let's give them some more space, just in case."

They followed cautiously, and it didn't take long to notice that not all was well. The princes were staying together, but their body language was rigid enough to be spotted even from a distance. They also didn't seem to be talking.

In the evening there still was silence between them. Michael and Sven shared concerned looks, unsure where this was going and what they were supposed to do about it.

Not that there was anything they had the right to do. They were here as guards, not as friends or counsellors, so all they could do was watch, and hope that whatever kept them fighting would resolve itself somehow.

That night they lay awake side by side, trying not to listen but still doing so. But there was only silence.

"Never thought I'd miss the noise," Michael whispered.

Sven didn't respond, he just shifted closer, one arm coming around Michael, holding on tightly. Neither of them slept well that night.

The silence between the princes continued throughout the next day. They still stayed together, and they helped each other when it came to packing up the tent and saddling the horses. They just didn't talk.

It was nerve-wrecking. By the end of the day, Michael was almost ready to go over and talk to them, no matter how mortifying that would have been for all parties involved.

Day three continued in the same vein. The princes were silent, Sven was making soothing noises, and Michael was ready to crack. Sensing his mood, even the damned horse behaved herself for once.

That night, tension broke.

The princes had retreated into their tent in the by now familiar silence, and everything had been quiet for an hour or so. Then, there suddenly were noises coming from their tent, of a rather unmistakeable nature.

In the dim light of the small torch they'd been using to check the map for tomorrow, Michael and Sven exchanged relieved looks.

Sven tilted his head. Michael quirked an eyebrow, then lunged forward and tackled him back into the sleeping bags. One of them had the presence of mind to switch off the torch. Then they had to thumb it on again for a moment to dig out the bottle of lube.

Right now Michael couldn't have cared less anymore about what happened around them. He didn't even care about the appreciative moans and sighs from Sven that had to carry far in the quiet night air. All he cared about was getting his lover naked, horizontal and fully peeled out of the sleeping bag.

There had to be an universal law that said zippers would become stuck at the most unfortunate moments.

"Oh bloody hell," Michael muttered, resting his forehead against Sven's.

They looked at each other, then burst out laughing.

"Let's try this again," Sven suggested after a while, still chuckling as he shimmied out of the sleeping bag.

"It's a conspiracy, I swear." Michael reached for him, and this time they managed without mishaps.

If there were still noises coming from the other tent, they didn't know; they made plenty of their own.

***

Returning to London felt like stepping into fast forward. First they had to oversee moving William partly into Kensington Palace - whoever had decided that this needed guard attention would be facing a serious chat with Michael and Stuart once they found out who to blame for having to look threatening whenever someone came too close to the cardboard boxes. At least William wasn't moving out of Clarence House completely; they all wondered whether it was convenience, or if he couldn't stand the thought of leaving the laundry closet behind.

It was what the Royalty Protection officers preferred, too. They'd get to keep their prince without having to share him with the Kensington Palace guards too often (they were not quite as bad as the Buckingham Palace ones, but they still thought they were something better because they guarded a Palace rather than a House. Little snots.) And with Carl Philip, they even had a third prince now; Harry had been allowed to keep his title, and nobody even thought of letting him out without a guard.

"He's surprisingly meek," Paul reported. "You'd never know it looking at the little Duchess, but one look from her and he behaves. And she isn't even doing it on purpose. I've never seen him so tame, it's downright worrying."

They were having their usual round of morning tea in the guard room of Clarence House, updating each other with anything important that had happened over the last month.

"You've missed a little incident with Prince Philip, too," Helen said. "Not ours, the one of Buckingham Palace."

"Ours is Prince Carl anyway, if you need to make it brief." Michael took a sip of tea, then gestured for her to continue. "So what has he done this time?"

"Suggested a sauna trip to Queen Silvia, apparently. I don't know what exactly he said, but it took her a full two hours to stop muttering angry German." Helen shrugged. "Or maybe normal German, it's so hard to tell with that language. Anyway, that's why she was in such a hurry yesterday to snatch up her son and leave for Sweden."

"Hopefully she won't think that Prince Carl Philip's virtue is in danger," Stuart said. "The press office has decided to go ahead with the public announcement next week, it would be a shame if she starts saving her son from evil Windsorian intentions now."

"It would have to be the other way round, anyway," Michael muttered. "They've taken the boy scout back with them?"

"Nils?" Helen laughed. "Fortunately, yes. He'll be back when the announcement is made, but for now Säpo is trusting us to take care of the Prince. He belongs to us now."

"As if you didn't have enough royals already to keep an eye on," Paul said. "You've got your two princesses, you spend half your on-duty time here... why do you have to snatch him, too? He's ours, woman, hands off."

"Be nice and share," Helen told him. "Then I'll let you help with Princess Beatrice once she takes on more public duties."

Michael glanced over to the kitchen corner at Sven, who had followed the discussion with a look of silent amusement on his face.

"Any complaints about us stealing your prince?" he asked.

Sven shrugged. "As long as you return him in one piece," he said.

***

The confrontation between William and the Prince of Wales caused some unease among the RPDs. They had overheard part of it - hard not to, with renovations still ongoing and random walls missing throughout the house.

The Clarence House staff was firmly on the side of the young princes, they always had been. Those were their royals, and from the cook to the maids to the guards, they were of one mind when it came to taking care of their boys. Carl Philip was not quite included in that elite group yet, but it counted for much towards the staff's benevolence that William was looking happier around him than he had for years.

So it came as very little surprise to any of them that on the day before the public outing of William and Carl Philip, the Prince of Wales was accidentally left behind at a service station on the M25 in the pouring rain.

It was an accident, of course. Stuart, who had served as the Prince's guard for the past years, would never have done something like that on purpose.

***

Thirty minutes after the official press release which said that Prince William of Wales was happy to announce his new relationship with Prince Carl Philip Bernadotte of Sweden, the crowd of reporters outside Clarence House was large enough that Michael and Sven had a hard time getting through. Another hour later, it had spilled out onto the Mall and the police had been called in to regulate traffic.

"They don't honestly think anyone is going to be stupid enough to go out, do they?" Sven asked as he looked out through the door. They were leaving the main door open by now; one of the maids had almost been blinded by the flashlights when she had innocently opened it earlier to polish the outside banister. Keeping the inner door to the private areas of Clarence House shut would be enough for today, and it let people come and go without causing an uproar. The Prince of Wales and the Duchess were off to Scotland, Harry and his wife were visiting with Prince Andrew - who still hadn't quite wrapped his mind around the recent turns of events, from what Helen reported - and William and Carl Philip had probably barricaded themselves in the laundry closet by now with a week's worth of water and rations.

"Today they're going to be persistent," Michael said from his seat at the desk. He had volunteered for door duty today; nothing was going to happen anyway, and he preferred to keep an eye on the crowd. Besides, Sven had gotten into the habit of borrowing that desk for his own work rather than use one of the guard offices at Buckingham Palace, so they could just spend the morning together and keep an eye on the crowd.

When Helen pulled up at the curb a little later in one of the official armoured cars, she almost caused a riot until the press realized she was on her own, with no royals in tow.

"Damned nuisances," she grumbled as she came up the steps. "Do they think the princes are imbeciles? Anyone with just a grain of sense would be off to the North Pole by now."

"Is that where the Princes have gone?" one of the reporters called up to her.

Helen turned around. "Yes, they are currently attempting to drive a hybrid car across the ice to the magnetic North Pole to demonstrate the importance of the environmental impact," she told him. "They'll release a message once they reach the Pole. Unless they get eaten by polar bears or fall through the melting ice and drown, we expect them back by Tuesday." She stomped up the rest of the stairs, then turned to the left into the ready room, muttering under her breath.

Michael looked after her, then shrugged. "You think they bought that?" he asked Sven.

Two of the papers next day claimed that the princes had gone off to the Arctic to celebrate their true love. One even had a clever photo manip showing them with a baby polar bear.

Michael and Sven studied the papers in awe, then looked at each other. "We'd better keep an eye on Helen before the press office steals her," Sven said.

***

The Raindance Film Festival was the closest to a real security operation they'd had for a long time. No official announcements were made that William and Carl Philip would be there, but of course it got leaked somehow that the princes would attend.

Every available Royal Protection Department officer got roped into the effort, along with a group of visiting Säpo trainees who had only come to London to familiarize themselves with the customs if they were assigned to Prince Carl Philip in the future. For as long as he and William did not formalize their relationship, the Swedes would still take care of his security, and so Sven had insisted that any potential guards be sent over so they could see what they were getting themselves into.

After Raindance, Michael suspected, at least two thirds of that group were going to run back to Stockholm and ask for a posting to a remote village.

The press had not calmed down much over the past days. They were still hounding Clarence House and the surrounding royal residences in the hope of getting a picture or something newsworthy, although they were starting to catch on by now that the security officers were not to be trusted, even if they seemed so free with the news.

Paul had managed to feed them a story about how Carl Philip was occupied trying to get his car through customs, which had sent no fewer than seven reporters off to the customs authority at the London port. Michael had topped that, albeit inadvertedly, by getting overheard as he talked about his Swede wanting to go to Stonehenge for the weekend. That had set a stampede in motion, complete with speculations about William getting sacrificed to Norse gods at the winter solstice.

Everything quieted down rather quickly after that. The press wasn't all that interested in princes who behaved themselves in public and who did nothing but look cute on the occasional picture, so they soon found other targets. The bug population in Clarence House increased exponentially for a few weeks, until every maid was outfitted with bug sniffers and told to add that to their sweeping duties. Nils was positioned upstairs to guard the laundry closet.

Things were quiet, just the way security personnel liked them to be.

***

Of course, there was the incident with the cow.

It was one of the days when Carl Philip was left to his own devices, with William busy being royalty. None of the RPD minded; usually whatever he got up to by himself either involved race tracks or trips to obscure pottery sheds where some young people were doing odd things with mud and called it design. It tended to make for interesting afternoons, and as long as everybody remembered to pack a second pair of shoes all was well.

There also was the interest for nature photography, which sounded eminently harmless until nature decided to strike back.

They were holding some sort of farmyard exhibition up in rural Yorkshire, and a hopeful letter with a pretty invitation had arrived at Clarence House. The Prince of Wales had waved off. The Duchess had discovered that her schedule had mysteriously filled up for that day in the past five minutes. Prince William's schedule actually was full already. Nobody even dared to ask Harry, for fear of what might happen if they let him get close to barnyard machinery. It had looked as though the Yorkshiremen were going to have to make do without royal patronage. Then Prince Carl Philip had seen the invitation and had offered to attend in everyone's name, what with still being theoretically enrolled in agriculture classes himself.

Everyone had looked relieved, Camilla had taken him shopping for a suitable pair of boots, and with Michael and Sven to protect him against the evils of the countryside, off he went.

The day was spent patting fluffy sheep, admiring tractors (they had a Porsche one on display), and generally having pictures taken of the Prince with cute animals. As far as Michael was concerned, it was one of the calmest days ever.

Until Carl Philip started taking his own pictures of some of the prized animals and almost got himself run over by a cow who didn't like the flash.

For a moment, Michael thought they might have an international incident on their hands as he sprinted towards the prince and the irritated bovine. Fortunately Carl Philip saved himself by a death-defying leap across a fence that sent him sprawling in the dust but raised a spontaneous round of cheers from the crowd.

The tabloids got a few puns on cowboys out of that one, the princes spent the next day in their apartment and only came out to get fresh batteries for the bug sniffers, and Carl Philip received invitations to every agriculture fair in the country.

The cow, a reporter revealed a week later, had been bought by the Prince of Wales and spirited away to his estates, where it was likely to become the most pampered cow in the whole of Britain.

***

"What happened?" Sven asked after Michael had helped Prince William up to his apartment on the third floor of Clarence House.

Michael shrugged his shoulders, trying to work the kinks out. "He fell off the polo pony. Nothing serious, but I gather he's got a fairly bruised backside."

They didn't think about the incident until the next morning, when they saw the _Sun_'s headline of "Sensitive Royal Backside - Are Wills and Carl Philip doing it dry?" And even then it was just a tabloid headline, and nothing to worry about.

When the mail arrived the day after, however, they began to see just what this meant.

"There's quite a lot of fan mail today," the postman said as Michael helped him drag bag after bag through the side entrance into the mail room. Everything had been scanned for dangerous substances already, so what was left for the security personnel now was to go through the packages and check for other dangerous substances. Normally it was a task that took one of them thirty minutes, but today Michael recruited Sven and they got to work, checking for dangers.

They didn't find any of them today. Not exactly.

What they found, however, was lube. A lot of lube.

"Just how much sex do they think the princes have?" Sven asked after two hours of unwrapping tube after tube. Some had brightly coloured bows tied around them.

"Well, they couldn't have known that everyone else would send something too." Michael laid another envelope aside and tossed the contents - trial sachets this time - into one of the crates they had fetched when it became obvious they'd stand a risk of suffocating under collapsing heaps of lubrication otherwise.

Sven took another box, opened it, and took out the lube. They had begun sorting it by brand by now. "At least it is going to save them from having to shop for it. Remember Scotland?"

Michael groaned. "Too well," he muttered. "How long until it expires anyway, a year?" He waved at the hip-high mountain of parcels still between them. "If they want to use up all of it, we're not going to see them until spring."

That evening, the staff members of Clarence House were provided with grocery bags full of lubricant before they headed home.

It turned into a slightly odd trip. Michael had never thought about it, but he could more or less understand that it was a bit strange to see two men on the bus who each carried two Tesco bags full of KY. On the whole he was glad to close the door to his apartment behind them twenty minutes later. Partly because the trip had been a bit of an embarrassment, but more importantly, because his mind was conditioned by now to jump to certain conclusions when presented with the image of Sven holding lube. Seeing him with whole bags of it made his brain do funny things.

He felt Sven's eyes on him as he shrugged out of his coat. Just to be contrary, he made a show of carefully putting it onto the hanger and straightening it out. When he turned around, Sven was just a few steps behind him, watching his every move. Michael tilted his head, smiling when their eyes met.

"I hope you haven't made plans for tonight," Sven said, his voice just a little rough.

"I thought maybe dinner first, and you know Manchester is playing Arsenal..."

"Mike?"

"Yes?"

Sven closed the distance between them in two quick strides, pushing him up against the wall. "You'll not be watching TV tonight," he said. "I hope you don't mind."

"Well, if you can make it worth my while..."

"Let's see what we can do about that," Sven said, then his mouth was on Michael's and all thoughts of football went out the window.

It had come as something of a revelation to Michael that kissing could be so much fun. Not that it hadn't always been part of his relationships, but until Sven, it had just been a fun gesture, a precursor to the main event, as it were. Now he was perfectly happy with just a kiss as long as it was a good one, and anyone who thought that not manly enough was welcome to come to the next round of firearms training as far as Michael was concerned.

That Sven was a great kisser didn't hurt, of course. Michael let himself be drawn closer, his hands settling on Sven's hips as they deepened the kiss. He tasted coffee, just a hint, wondered what it would take to finally make Sven embrace the greatness that was a proper cup of tea. Dismissed the thought when his lover's tongue teased against his lips.

It wasn't enough, not by a long stretch, and he lost patience with all this teasing and had Sven with his back against the wall in a moment's pushing and turning. He leaned in hungrily, smiling when he heard Sven's breaths come faster. A hand at the nape of his neck held him tight and they were kissing in earnest now, tongues playing against each other. With a low growl he pushed his thigh in between Sven's legs, bringing them closer together. The hand at his neck moved up, fingers curling in his hair.

He was rewarded with a moan, low and quiet, when he ran his hand up under Sven's loose shirt. Sven shifted, moving into his touches, and with their hips rocking together it was hard to remain patient.

"Don't make me sew buttons again," Sven gasped when Michael tugged at his shirt.

They drew apart slightly, and a few fumbled moments later Sven's shirt was pushed off his shoulders and down to the floor, crumpled by now but with all buttons intact. Michael's quickly joined it.

"Bed?" Sven suggested, a little breathless as he dug one of the bottles of lube out of the bag.

Pavlov's dog, Michael thought as he couldn't help but react at the sight. Pavlov's dog.

***

As royal weddings went, this one was a special case in so many ways.

"I wish they hadn't banned uniforms," Helen said, smoothing down her dress once again and looking ill at ease. At her side, Stuart and Paul looked just as uncomfortable even though they at least were not wearing high heels.

For the occasion, the staff of Clarence House had been given the day off so they could be present as guests rather than having to work. It didn't stop anyone from slipping into work mode, of course - Michael had to consciously stop himself from keeping an eye on the security, and he was fairly sure he had seen two of the maids wrinkle their noses when they spotted dust on the banister curlicues and start surreptitiously wiping it down.

This was their princes' wedding, and it was going to be perfect. Or else.

"So this is it," Michael said to Sven as they watched the princes share their first public kiss, the first one at a royal wedding in quite a while that looked as though the participants were genuinely enjoying themselves and not just glad to get another bit of the ceremony over with.

"This is it," Sven agreed. "Who'd have thought?"

They clinked their wine glasses together. "The prince has his prince," Michael said. "This is as close to a happily ever after as it's ever going to get."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Through The Looking Glass: The Duke Of Vroomland](https://archiveofourown.org/works/85816) by [rekishi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rekishi/pseuds/rekishi)




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